THE  FRANCIS  P.  FARQUHAR 

COLLECTION  OF  MOUNTAINEERING 

LITERATURE 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


BOOKS  BY  PROF.  JOHN  C.  VAN  DYKE 


Art  for  Art's  Sake.  University  Lectures  on  the  Technical 
Beauties  of  Painting.    With  24  Illustrations.     12mo.      nei  $1.50 

The  Meaning  of  Pictures.  University  Lectures  at  the 
Metropolitan  Museum,  New  York.  With  31  Illustrations. 
12mo net  $1.25 

Studies  in  Pictures.  An  Introduction  to  the  Famous 
Galleries.    With  40  Illustrations.     12mo  .        .        .        net  $1.25 

What  is  Art?  Studies  in  the  Technique  and  Criticism  of 
Painting.    12mo net  $1.00 

Text  Book  of  the  History  of  Painting.  With  110 
Illustrations.    New  Edition.     12mo $1.50 

Old  Dutch  and  Flemish  Masters.  With  Timothy 
Cole's  Wood-Engravings.     Superroyal  8vo    ....  $7.50 

Old  English  Masters.  With  Timothy  Cole's  Wood- 
Engravings.    Superroyal  8vo $8.00 

Modern  French  Masters.  Written  by  American  Artists 
and  Edited  by  Prof.  Van  Dyke.  With  66  Full-page  Illus- 
trations.   Superroyal  8vo $10.00 

New  Guides  to  Old  Masters.  Critical  Notes  on  the 
European  Galleries,  Arranged  in  Catalogue  Order.  Fron- 
tispieces.    12  volumes       .        .         each,  nei,  75  cents  and  $1.00 

Nature  for  Its  Own  Sake.  First  Studies  in  Natural 
Appearances.    With  Portrait.     12mo        .        .        .        net  $1.50 

The  Desert.  Further  Studies  in  Natural  Appearances. 
With  Frontispiece.     12mo net  $1.25 

The  Opal  Sea.  Continued  Studies  in  Impressions  and  Ai>- 
pearances.    With  Frontispiece.     12mo      .        .        .        net  $1.25 

The  Mountain.  Renewed  Studies  in  Impressions  and  Ap- 
pearances.   With  Frontispiece.     12mo      .        .        .        net  $1.25 

The  Money  God.  Chapters  of  Heresy  and  Dissent  con- 
cerning Business  Methods  and  Mercenary  Ideals  in  Ameri- 
can Lite.     12mo net  $1.00 

The  New  New  York.  A  Commentary  on  the  Place  and 
the  People.    With  125  Illustrations  by  Joseph  Pennell.  net  H.00 


it  p^u.-to^TftpA^.  oopyriAAx  9y 


tr  /r'^droA^trr*.,  JiasUr-i.c>c 


y/i^  04>4.MA/?r^r^fy A'o/^f  ^t/o^'e^  .y.^ij^A[^/A. 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


RENEWED  STUDIES  IN  IMPRESSIONS 
AND  APPEARANCES 


BY 


JOHN    C.  VAN    DYKE 

AUTHOR   OF  "the   DESERT,"    "THE   OPAL   SEA, 

"nature  for  its  own  sake,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1916 


COPTBIGHT,   1916,  BT 

CHARLES  SCREBNER'S  SONS 


Publiahed    April.   1916 


PREFACE-DEDICATION 

B.  R.  C. 

Our  first  fancy  in  mountain  scenery  is 
usually  the  spectacular,  the  startling,  perhaps 
the  fantastic.  The  spurs  and  spines  of  the 
Dolomites,  the  sharp  shaft  of  the  Matterhorn, 
the  beetling  height  of  Kinchinjunga  command 
our  wonder  by  their  extraordinary  display  of 
form.  Years  after,  when  the  ranges  have  be- 
come a  more  familiar  story,  we  perhaps  care 
less  for  the  abrupt  than  the  quiescent  and  are 
content  with  the  flowing  lines  of  the  Appa- 
lachians or  the  rounded  forms  of  the  Scotch 
hUls. 

We  change  our  point  of  view,  but  the  moun- 
tains themselves  change  not.  Whatever  face 
they  turn  to  us,  whatever  their  appearance, 
it  is  always  one  of  beauty.  They  are  mere 
breaks  in  the  crust — crushings  of  the  earth- 
shell — and  by  the  same  reckoning  color  is  a 
mere  break  in  the  beam  of  light,  but  what  a 


VI  PREFACE-DEDICATION 

wonder  work  each  of  them  spreads  before  us ! 
We  pick  and  choose  here  and  there — some  for 
the  strength  of  form  and  others  for  the  glory 
of  color — but  nature  herself  makes  no  choice 
and  has  no  preference.  For  she  formed  and 
garbed  and  hued  each  manifestation,  from  the 
first  gentle  heave  of  a  foot-hill  to  the  last  sun- 
flash  on  a  pinnacled  peak,  with  a  singular  care 
and  endowed  it  with  a  peculiar  and  a  super- 
lative beauty.  Each  after  its  kind  was  made 
perfect  and  complete  within  itself. 

When  nature  sets  such  a  pace  what  better 
can  one  do  than  follow?  In  these  studies  of 
mountains  I  have  not  given  either  preference 
or  illustration  to  any  one  form  of  mountain 
beauty.  I  have  spoken  much  of  the  Rockies 
and  devoted  the  first  chapter  to  the  long  ap- 
proach to  them  across  the  prairies  of  Dacotah; 
but  I  have  also  taken  many  illustrations  from 
the  Alps,  the  Carpathians,  the  Caucasus,  the 
Apennines,  the  Mexican  Sierras — some  of  them 
quite  as  familiar  to  Americans  as  their  owti 
mountains.  From  all  sources  and  from  many 
lands  I  have  tried  to  show  the  varied  features 
and  different  types  of  mountain  splendor.  The 
variety  is  infinite,  and  the  Ruskins  who  have 
formed  theories  of  mountain  form  and  color 


PREFACE-DEDICATION  VU 

from  the  Alps  alone  fall  short  in  their  gener- 
alizations. There  is  a  peculiarity — one  might 
say  a  mountain  individuality — about  not  only 
the  peaks  but  the  ranges.  No  two  of  them  are 
alike. 

For  the  rest  these  sketches  should  speak  for 
themselves.  They  will  tell  you  that  my  in- 
terest is  with  the  beauty  of  the  mountains 
rather  than  their  science,  their  history,  or  their 
conquest  by  Alpinists.  I  have  used  science 
herein  by  way  of  illustrating  the  bases  of  form 
and  color  and  used  history  and  narrative 
merely  as  a  setting  for  the  picture.  It  is 
the  picture — the  pictorial  in  the  mountains — 
that  I  am  seeking,  and  the  remainder  is  only 
so  much  pigment,  varnish,  and  gilt  frame.  All 
the  world  loves  the  mountains — loves  them  as 
color  patterns  on  the  blue,  as  marvels  of  light 
and  shade,  as  symbols  of  peace  and  purity — 
loves  them,  in  other  words,  as  one  might  a 
picture.  That  there  is  a  supreme  grandeur 
about  the  peaks  and  a  great  beauty  in  the 
lesser  hills  every  one  will  acknowledge. 

But  the  grandeur  of  the  peaks  is  as  hard  to 
capture  with  the  brush  as  the  beauty  of  the 
hills  with  the  pen.  The  landscape-painter  and 
the  writer  have  had  very  moderate  success  in 


VUl  PREFACE-DEDICATION 

portraying  them.  The  great  features  of  na- 
ture seem  defiant  of  representation.  ^Vhether 
this  attempt  of  mine  is  better  or  worse  than 
others  I  know  not.  It  may  have  a  saving  grace 
of  difference.  For  the  greater  part  of  it  is 
record  of  my  own  seeing  carried  over  a  long 
number  of  years.  I  shall  have  to  insist  that 
the  record  is  true  so  far  as  it  goes — that  is, 
true  to  my  point  of  view. 

J.  C.  V.  D. 

San  Bernardino  Mountains 
August,  1915, 


CONTENTS 

Chapter  I.  From  Afar. — The  great  prairie — The 
Sioux  hunting — The  Sunset  Trail — Riding  with  the 
Sioux — Indian  hfe — The  lure  of  the  wild — The  Chey- 
ennes — Twilight  pictures — Dawn  on  the  prairie — 
Breaking  camp — The  march — Prairie  silence — Animal 
Ufe  on  the  prairie — The  heat — Indian  endurance — Prai- 
rie lakes — The  night  camp — Divides  and  swales — The 
uplands — Buttes  and  trenches — The  Bad  Lands — Fire 
and  water  wear — Strange  colors — Montana  mesas — 
The  clear  night  air — Planets  and  constellations — 
Powder  River  ranges — An  upland  valley — Sighting 
buffalo — The  buffalo  hunt — The  Sioux  attack — The 
buffalo  defense — The  stampede — The  pursuit  and 
death — Across  the  Tongue — The  table-lands — Deer 
and  elk — Untenanted  expanses — Love  of  the  wilder- 
ness— Far  views  from  the  divides — Distant  mountains 
— The  Big  Horn  mountain  tops — The  Cheetahs — 
Valley  of  the  Big  Horn — Barren  buttes — Across  the 
Yellowstone — The  blossomed  table-lands — The  wide 
reach — The  distant  Rockies — Snow  peaks — Sunset  on 
the  peaks — The  return — Memories — First  impressions 
— The  great  change  in  Dacotah — The  vanished  life — 
The  mountain  wall  still  stands 1 

Chapter  II.  Mountain-Making. — Indian  dislike  of 
mountains — The  love  of  the  open — Spirits  in  the  moun- 
tains— Indian  superstitions — Mountain  gods — Siva 
the  creator — Sacred  mountains — Teutonic  behefs — 
The  Brocken — Good  spirits  in  mountains — Shrines  to 
Deity — Jehovah's  footstool — Scientific  theories  and 
changes — World-building — The  nebular  hypothesis — 
The  planetessimal  theory — The  spiral  nebula — CoUision 
and  conjunction — The  solar  system — The  new  behef — 
ix 


CONTENTS 


Sources  of  heat — Stages  of  growth — The  accession 
period — Heat  and  gravity — Vulcanism — The  hydro- 
atmospheric  period — Subsidence  of  sea-beds — Up- 
Ufted  areas — Cooling  of  the  earth — Buckhng  of  the 
crust — Folding  ranges — Objections  to  the  new  theory — 
The  general  sinking  movement — Faulting — Exposed 
face  waUs — Elevations  and  depressions — Volcanic 
mountain-making — Cones  and  craters — Upheaval  as 
an  explanation — The  heaving  force — Fire  and  water 
forming  steam — Making  of  the  Alps — Lateral  thrust 
insufficient — Effects  of  erosion — Water  wear  on  buttes 
and  hills — Mountain  disintegration — Early  stream- 
beds — Worn-down  mountains — The  Alps  and  Andes 
new  mountains 20 

Chapter  III.  The  Hills. — Ruskin  on  mountains — 
False  analogies — Mountain  action  and  repose — Ranges 
are  cracks  in  the  shell — Low  hills  as  buttresses — Truth 
of  appearance — Foot-hiUs — Isolated  hills — BuckUng  of 
crust  not  uniform — The  Alps  pecuhar — The  undis- 
turbed plains — Variety  in  the  hills — EngUsh  and  Amer- 
ican hills — Forms  of  hills — Gravel  hills — Water  wear 
upon  them — Volcanic  hills — Crater  lakes — Hills  of 
rock  formation — Soft  and  hard  rocks — Limestone  beds 
— Faulted  structure — The  vertical  face  wall — Fate  of 
the  face  wall — Rounded  hills — Effects  of  erosion — 
Worn-down  mountains — Processes  of  renewal — Sky- 
lines— Effect  of  Hues  upon  the  eye — Edgings  and  out- 
Unes — ^Valley  Unes — Sparsely  covered  hills — Foliage 
mufl3ing  hill  Hnes — The  Greek  hills — Drawing  of  the 
hills — Foot-hills  of  the  Rockies — New  Jersey  hills — 
Line  as  it  reveals  mass — Hills  suggesting  distance — 
Rock  barriers  and  hght — The  Grampians — Grace  of  the 
Enghsh  hills — Brilliant  colors  of  American  hiUs — New 
England  in  October — Nature's  high  color  gamut — 
Hills  in  winter — Snow  upon  the  hills — Desert  hills — 
Color  of  desert  hills — Peaks  of  the  Colorado  Desert — 
Catch  points  of  sunlight — Sunset  on  the  crags — Moon- 
light in  the  hills — Lightning  flashes — The  hills  as  ro- 


CONTENTS  XI 


mance-makers — Sentiment  produced  by  the  hills — 
Their  inspiration — Visions  seen  in  the  hills — The  re- 
turn to  the  hills 39 

Chapter  IV.  Foot-Hills  and  Rock  Bases. — The 
outlying  hills — Stepping-stones  to  higher  peaks — Less 
buckled  than  the  high  peaks — Wrinkles  of  the  outer 
crust — Wash  from  the  upper  peaks — The  higher  setthng 
upon  the  lower — Trend  of  the  foot-hills — Cross-spurs — 
Alpine  foot-hills — Transverse  ranges  not  buttresses — 
Feeling  of  support — Eternal  peaks — Mankind  in  the 
foot-hills — Assyrian  cities — The  Alban  mountains  near 
Rome — The  view  of  Rome — Far  views — Italian  foot- 
hills— Coast  Range  foot-hills — Hills  at  Santa  Barbara — 
CUmbing  the  foot-hiUs — Looking  backward — Montana 
views — Ravines  and  canyons — Rock  bases — Rock  walls 
impressive — Canyon  of  the  Colorado — The  self-support- 
ing globe — Precipices — Height  of  precipices — Matter- 
horn  precipices — The  Staubbach  leap — Angle  hues  of 
the  rock  wall — Drawing  a  face  wall — Suggestion  of 
strength — Heat,  frost,  rain,  and  wind — Growing  taluses 
— Cliff  shadow — Precipice  gloom — Color  of  the  walls — 
Wild  flowers  in  the  cracks — Color  of  the  flowers — 
Tenacity  of  the  growths — Endurance  of  slight  things — 
Different-colored  rock  strata — New  Mexican  escarp- 
ments— Colors  of  Alpine  walls — The  Schwarze  Monch 
— The  Eiger  and  Wetterhorn — Walls  gnawed  by  the 
sea — Ocean  caves — Wind-worn  caves — The  cave  of 
fiction — The  cave  of  reality 61 

Chapter  V.  The  Timber-Line. — Character  of 
mountain  ranges — Effect  of  rain  on  growths — Moun- 
tains named  from  color — Desert  mountains  again — 
Chaparral  and  underbrush — Coast  Range  forests — 
Alaska  timber — Alpine  forests — Effect  of  cold  on  tim- 
ber— Stunted  growths — Timber  determining  mountain 
character — Peculiar  features  of  mountain  timber — 
Oregon  and  Washington  timber — Density  of  the  growth 
— Alpine  larches — The  Swiss  forests — Flowers  in  the 


XU  CONTENTS 


timber — Growths  on  Pacific  slope — Windfalls  and 
bums — Decayed  firs  and  pines — Difficulties  of  travel — 
Giant  firs  and  spruces — Thickness  of  the  stand — Dead 
firs — The  redwood — Its  great  height  and  bulk — Douglas 
spruces  and  sugar-pines — Lodge-pole  pines — The  sway- 
ing conifers — Mass  of  the  forests — Open  spots  in  the 
timber — Streams  and  blossoms — Flowers  of  the  forest — 
Clematis  and  roses — Orchids  in  the  Siskiyou  woods — 
Small  flowers — The  weeping  spruce — Petals  that  blush 
unseen — Instinct  of  plants — The  wood  birds — Peculi- 
arities of  forest  birds — Warblers  and  fly-catchers — 
Pacific-slope  birds — Jays  and  woodpeckers — Alpine  an- 
imals— Chamois  and  marmot — White-tailed  and  mule 
deer — The  grizzly — At  home  in  the  chaparral — Strength 
of  the  grizzly — His  endurance — The  Rocky  Mountain 
silvertip — Alaskan  bears — Other  animals  in  western 
mountains — Stillness  of  the  big  woods — Night  in  the 
forest — The  oppressive  silence — Serenity  of  nature — 
Nature  building  up  and  tearing  down — Compensations 
— Death  a  part  of  nature's  plan 80 

Chapter  VI.  The  Uplands. — Above  the  timber — 
Mountain  meadows — Climbing  on  the  barrens — Dif- 
ficulties of  the  climb — Getting  one's  breath — Cold 
winds — Air  of  the  uplands — Nature  exacting — Sunlight 
on  the  mountain  side — White  light — Views  from  the 
uplands — Above  St.  Moritz — Toward  Chiavenna — 
From  the  Bernina  Pass — From  the  Kolnerhlitte — The 
Ortler  group — The  huge  panorama — Views  from  the 
Rockies — From  San  Bernardino  Mountains — Western 
valleys  of  Mexico — The  sweep  to  the  Pacific — Upland 
meadows — Larch  and  juniper — Alpine  flowers — Hardy 
character — Nature's  resources — The  dwarf  growth — 
The  struggle  for  life — Plant  devices — Prodigality  of 
flower  growths — Their  Alpine  character — Swiss  fauna — 
The  chamois — His  equipment — Agility  of  the  chamois 
— On  mountain  ledges — The  marmot — The  whistler — 
Rocky  Mountain  flora — The  avalanche  lily — Growing 
through   the   ice-sheet — Flowers   on   the   snow-line — 


CONTENTS  XIU 


Brilliant  coloring — Rocky  Mountain  animals — The  big- 
horn— Habits  of  the  bighorn — Rocky  Mountain  goat — 
Not  so  agile  as  the  sheep — American  birds  above  the 
timber — The  white  grouse — Nature's  equipment — Laws 
of  Ufe 102 

Chapter  VII.  Mountain  Waters. — The  wet  up- 
lands— Pools  on  the  barrens — Hues  of  moimtain  lake- 
lets— Crater  Lake  reflections — Swiss  and  Itahan  lakes 
— Pater  on  Swiss  lakes — Lakes  of  the  sky — Little  brooks 
— Across  mountain  meadows — Mountain  streams — 
The  growing  brook — The  waterfall — Alpine  waterfalls 
— The  Staubbach — The  Yosemite  falls — Cataracts 
not  in  mountains — The  reunited  waters — Wearing  a 
canyon — Pacific  Coast  canyons — Coquille  River  can- 
yon— Wear  of  rock — Gorge  of  the  Coquille — Califomian 
canyons — Alpine  gorges — Dolomite  valleys — Loneli- 
ness of  the  canyon — Water-ousels — Fly-catchers  along 
streams — Glacier  streams — Their  weight  and  cutting 
power — Rapid-running  streams — Bow  River  at  Banff 
— Color  of  glacier  stream — Local  color  of  water — The 
Rhone  at  Geneva — Mountain  lakes — Emerald  Lake 
near  Field— Iceberg  Lake — Engadine  lakes— Lake  Nemi 
— Corot  painting  Lake  Nemi — Corot's  romancing  of 
fact — Byron  and  Monte  Cavo — Apostrophe  to  the  sea 
— Ruskin  on  mountain  waters — Mission  of  mountain 
waters 122 

Chapter  VIII.  Glaciers  and  Avalanches. — Forma- 
tion of  glaciers — Conditions  of  glacier-making — Alpine 
glaciers — Glaciers  in  the  Rockies — The  Greenland  ice- 
cap— The  n^ve — Crystals  in  glacier  ice — The  first  slip 
downward — The  ice  tongue — Piedmont  glaciers — 
Hanging  glaciers — Movement  of  glaciers — The  Mer  de 
Glace — Practical  proof  of  movement — The  Muir 
Glacier — Middle  and  top  movements  of  glaciers — 
Oscillation — Registering  of  snowfalls — Crevasses- 
Crackling  of  the  ice — Squeezing  and  crushing — Opening 
of  the  crevasses — Glacier  gathering  of  debris — Glacier 


XIV  CONTENTS 


lakes — The  well  or  moulin — Lateral  moraines — Frontal 
moraines — Valley  train  and  esker — The  Yoho  Glacier — 
Its  famous  arch — The  Taku  Glacier — Face  wall  of  the 
Taku  Glacier — Alaskan  glaciers — Great  glaciers — The 
glacier's  source — In  winter — Locked-up  ice  crj-stals — 
The  avalanche — The  snow  glissade — Following  well- 
worn  sUdes — Falling  avalanches — Dangerous  snow- 
shps — Ice  avalanches  of  the  Jungfrau — Friction  of  the 
avalanche — Landslips — Destructive  nature  of  land- 
shps — Caucasian  avalanches — Protection  of  the  snow — 
Drawing  quahty  of  catastrophes — Readjustments  of 
pressure — Nature's  serenity 141 

Chapter  IX.  The  Snow-Ldiie. — Snow-capped  moun- 
tains— Height  of  the  snow-Hne — Not  sharply  marked 
— Snow  in  rock  fissures — Fantastic  appearances — Gulch 
snow  dirty-looking — Purity  of  mountain  snow — Its 
whiteness — The  word  "white" — Why  the  snow  is 
white — Crj'stalline  chai'acter  of  flakes — The  prismatic 
quahty — Luminosity  of  the  white — Phosphorescence — 
Light  transmitted  and  reflected — Brilhancy  of  the 
reflection — Shadows  upon  snow — Colored  shadows — 
Blue  shadow — Its  conditions — Skj^  reflection — Comple- 
mentary colors  in  shadow — Effect  of  yellow  Ught — 
Shadows  on  snow  of  Mont  Blanc — Alpenglow — Re- 
flections from  rocky  peaks — Desert  peaks — Dehcacy 
of  their  color — Blues  and  purples — Color  in  the  high 
hght — Moonlight  on  the  snow  peaks — The  trembling 
ail- — Aloofness  of  the  peaks — Snow-storms  on  the  crests 
— Banks  and  drifts — Bolted  snow — Snowfall  on  St. 
Gothard — Snow-lines — Ruskin  on  snow-drifts — Rus- 
kin  on  blue  shadows — Old  masters  knew  the  blue 
shadow — Melting  and  freezing  of  snow  crust — Ghtter 
of  snow-ice — Hoarfrost  and  ice-dust — Sun-dogs — The 
lifting  pinnacles 161 

Chapter  X.  Spines  and  Wedges. — The  needles — 
The  rocky  points — Inchnation  of  rock  beds — Igneous 
or  fire  rocks — Crj-^stalline  results — Aqueous  rocks — 
Stratified  results — The  soft  rocks — Metamorphism — 


CONTENTS  XV 


Friction  and  heat — Transformation  of  rocks — The 
antichne  and  synchne — The  isochne  and  anticlinorium 
— Complex  foldings  of  crust — Foot-hills  as  illustration 
— Outlying  mountains — Ragged  edges  of  beds — Wear- 
ing of  the  edges — The  fan-fold  in  the  highest  peaks — 
Wild  waving  of  the  strata — Alpine  needles — The 
Matterhorn — Dolomite  peaks — Mexican  sierras — Hard, 
gneissic  needles — Weathered  peaks — Youthful  ranges 
— Local  color  of  the  peaks — Reflected  color  of  bare 
rock — Dolomite  spines — Snow  swirls  about  spines — 
Valley  view  of  mountains — Mass  and  grandeur — View 
from  the  top — From  Monte  Rosa — The  Canadian 
Rockies — Chaos  of  snow-fields — The  view  looking 
down — The  distorted  impression — The  Alpine  cKmber 
— Difficulties  of  high  ascents — The  dare  of  cHmbing — - 
SoHtary  mountain-climbers — Attraction  of  remote- 
ness— Longing  for  the  mountains — Bismarck  in  the 
mountains — The  snowy  summit  of  the  world — Emo- 
tional f  eeUng 180 

Chapter  XL  Blue  and  Silver. — Darkness  of  space 
— Limit  of  the  sky — The  changing  blue — At  the  top  of 
Mount  McKinley — The  sun's  rays — Mount  Whitney 
and  Mount  Rainier — Depth  of  the  blue — The  cold 
color-scheme — Twilight  from  the  peaks — The  moon — 
The  stars — Poise  of  the  universe — The  stillness — Peaks 
as  cloud-makers — The  rain  sheet — Clear  skies  at  night — 
Rising  and  forming  clouds — Clouds  in  Alaska — Cumulus 
— Condensation — Bonnet  clouds — Banner  clouds — Odd 
shapes — Rising  warm  air — Heap-clouds — Sky  illusions 
— The  stratus — The  cirrus — Forms  of  the  cirrus — The 
glory  of  the  upper  sky — The  nimbus  or  rain-cloud — 
Chinook  winds — Falling  rain  in  the  valley — Storm  in 
the  mountains — Low  clouds — Above  the  storm — Pass- 
ing clouds — Arch  of  the  rainbow — The  unmoved  peaks 
— Mountain  serenity 199 

Chapter  XIL  The  Ranges. — Remainder  of  the 
ice-cap — Perpetual  snow — The  great  ranges — The 
Himalayas — The   northern   Rockies — Placing    of    the 


XVI  CONTENTS 


ranges — Elevation  of  continents — Scientific  limita- 
tions— Distribution  of  land  and  water — Ignorance  of 
the  ranges — The  Alps  the  best  known — The  unknown 
Himalayas — Appreciation  of  mountains — Petrarch 
chmbing  Moimt  Ventoux — Bishop  Burnet  on  moun- 
tains— Mountain  poetry — Byron  on  Mont  Blanc — 
Goethe  on  the  Alps — Bible  and  Shakespeare — Painters 
of  the  mountains — Salvator  and  Poussin — Courbet 
and  Turner — Ruskin  on  Alpine  color — His  love  of 
mountains — Painters  could  not  follow  Ruskin — Diffi- 
culties of  mountain-painting — Mountains  not  pictorial 
— Illusions  and  impressions — The  decorative  pattern 
— The  spectacular  and  grandiose — Ragged  sky-lines — 
The  coldness  of  the  color — Absence  of  warm  hues — 
Light  and  atmosphere — No  "envelope"  for  the  pic- 
ture— The  human  element — Painting  green  mountains 
— Claude,  Ruysdael,  Gainsborough — Wyant  and  Martin 
— The  desert  ranges  paintable — Desert  air  and  color — 
Desert  mountains  as  yet  unpainted — A  new  field — 
Things  beyond  man's  reach — The  unattainable  ranges 
— When  everything  is  known — The  wonder  of  the  un- 
known   216 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


CHAPTER  I 


FROM   AFAR 


Dacotah  !  The  Dacotah  of  the  Sioux !  Be- 
fore the  railways  crossed  it,  before  a  wagon- 
trail  was  broken,  before  ever  the  white  man 
came,  what  a  wilderness  it  was !  The  prairie- 
grass  reached  up  to  the  pony's  knees,  the  sun 
came  up  out  of  it  and  went  down  into  it,  a 
wide  horizon  stretched  around  one  in  a  ring, 
a  light-shot  sky  of  blue  came  down  to  meet  it. 
The  buffalo,  the  gray  wolf,  and  the  coyote 
were  its  occupants.  It  was  Any  Man's  Land, 
it  was  No  Man's  Land.  The  antelope,  with 
restless,  bulging  eyes,  kept  watch  about  him  in 
a  circle.  And  the  human  who  ventured  there, 
whether  white  man  or  red,  never  relaxed  his 
vigilance.  The  right  of  might  was  the  law  of 
the  prairie,  and  from  it  there  was  no  appeal. 
Life  was  for  those  who  could  keep  it. 

Rare,  indeed,  was  the  sight  of  man  in  that 
wilderness.  There  were  few  camps  and  no  set- 
1 


The  great 
prairie. 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


tlements.  Even  the  Indians,  seen  occasion- 
ally in  small,  bead-like  strings  crossing  the 
wide  expanse,  seemed  somewhat  out  of  place, 
somewhat  like  shore  birds  lost  at  sea,  winging 
a  weary  way  over  endless  swales  and  divides. 
They  were  never  too  fond  of  the  grass  prairies, 
for  they  lacked  in  protection.  They  crossed 
and  recrossed  them  on  hunting  expeditions, 
they  camped  on  them,  hunted  on  them;  but 
they  never  cared  to  live  on  them.  Almost 
always  the  band  was  small  and  moving  to- 
ward the  west — toward  the  northern  range  in 
IMontana,  where  the  buffalo  herds  were  plenti- 
ful. The  way  led  across  the  Missouri,  through 
the  Bad  Lands,  over  into  the  valleys  of  the 
Powder,  the  Tongue,  and  the  Big  Horn.  It 
was  a  wild,  wild  way,  but  what  a  lure  it  had 
for  the  venturesome !  There  is  always  a  mad 
fascination  about  a  new  and  unexplored  coun- 
try. 

It  required  something  of  enthusiasm  and 
more  of  endurance  to  ride  with  the  Sioux  in 
those  days.  Your  horse  was  only  a  mustang, 
half  bridle-wise  and  wholly  wicked,  that  rolled 
you  under  in  swimming  a  river  and  pounded 
you  with  his  fore  feet  when  he  got  his  head; 
your  stirrups,   into  which  you  thrust  moo- 


FROM  AFAR 


casined  feet,  were  mere  loops  in  a  buckskin 
thong  flung  over  the  pony's  shoulder;  your 
saddle  was  a  flap  of  moose  or  buffalo  skin  or 
more  often  the  pony's  bare  back.  You  rode 
with  the  band  until  the  chief  gave  the  sign 
for  a  halt.  Camp  meant  a  place  where  there 
was  a  prairie  pool  or  water  standing  in  a  buf- 
falo wallow;  food  meant  anything  that  could 
be  caught,  shot,  or  gathered  on  the  way;  sleep 
meant  any  spot  of  ground  in  a  bunch  of  grass 
or  under  a  bush  where  you  chose  to  curl  up. 
To  look  out  for  yourself,  to  ask  no  questions, 
and  to  make  no  murmur  were  imperative.  In 
the  wild  neither  man  nor  beast  pays  any  heed 
to  the  cry  of  the  weak.  The  human,  like  the 
wolf,  endures  in  silence. 

But  the  hardships,  the  dangers,  even  the 
disasters  of  such  an  expedition  were  willingly 
borne  by  youth  for  the  love  of  adventure  and 
the  pure  joy  of  the  open.  That  riding  day  by 
day,  riding  into  the  sunset  west,  riding  into 
the  unknown,  had  an  attraction  about  it  dif- 
ficult to  explain  yet  none  the  less  real.  The 
unexpected  was  always  expected.  No  one 
knew  what  surprise  would  be  sprung  from  the 
top  of  the  next  divide.  There  was  always  the 
outlook  of  the  hunter  watching  for  game,  for 


Indian 
life. 


The  lure 
of  the 
wild. 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


The 
Cheyennes. 


Twilight 
pictures. 


Davm  on 
the  prairie. 


Breaking 
camp. 


food  was  the  one  great  demand.  And  there 
was  also  the  keen  watch  of  the  hunted — the 
trahied  eye  looking  for  danger.  Advance 
riders  were  continually  looking  over  slopes  for 
hostile  bands  of  southern  Cheyennes  or  prowl- 
ing marauders  from  over  the  northern  border. 
The  last  thing  seen  at  night  was  scouts  riding 
along  the  high  divides,  taking  a  final  look 
around  the  huge  circle.  What  a  picture,  those 
half-naked  Sioux  silhouetted  against  the  blood- 
red  twilight,  each  one  bunched  over  his  pony's 
shoulder  and  peering  catlike  into  the  gather- 
ing gloom !  And  what  nights  of  mystery  with 
the  hushed  camp  asleep  in  the  great  silence 
— asleep  and  yet  half-consciously  listening  for 
the  slightest  danger  sound. 

Dawn  on  the  prairie  was  almost  as  mys- 
terious as  dusk.  The  light  was  not  shot  up 
suddenly  from  the  bow  of  the  horizon,  but 
gradually  grew  around  the  whole  wide  half- 
circle  of  the  east  and  then  flooded  softly  into 
the  upper  sky.  There  was  no  sharp  division- 
line  between  the  night  and  the  day  as  in  the 
tropics.  The  light  spread  upward  through  the 
dark  turning  it  slowly  into  half-light.  Just 
as  gradually  the  dark  outlines  of  the  divides 
melted  away,  some  odd  spots  of  shadow  around 


FROM  AFAR 


the  camp  grew  into  picketed  ponies,  some 
moving  blurs  here  and  there  turned  into  the 
Sioux  getting  ready  for  the  day's  march. 

An  Indian  band  gets  under  way  quickly,  not 
being  bothered  with  much  impedimenta  in  the 
shape  of  baggage.  The  chief  and  the  hunters 
rode  first,  strung  out  in  single  file,  as  elks 
move  when  migrating.  After  them  came  the 
squaws,  with  ponies  trailing  teepee  poles  across 
which  were  lashed  carryalls  for  the  children 
and  the  camp  plunder.  In  the  rear  trotted  the 
dogs — snarling,  wolf -like  curs  that  always  seem 
inseparable  from  an  Indian  outfit  wherever  it 
may  be.  Only  the  dogs  gave  tongue.  The 
band  rode  on  in  silence. 

And  silent,  too,  in  the  early  morning,  the 
wild  life  of  the  prairie.  Even  the  whimpering 
coyote  that  had  yelped  at  intervals  through 
the  night  made  no  whine  after  daylight.  The 
wolves  slipped  away  to  holes  under  cut-banks 
or  in  washouts,  the  small  buffalo  ring  (cows 
and  calves  on  the  inside  and  bulls  on  the  out- 
side) that  had  fought  off  the  wolves  through 
the  night  broke  guard  and  grazed  at  ease,  the 
antelope  nibbling  grass  on  the  far-away  ridges 
were  seen  only  as  spots  of  white  flashing  in  the 
rising  sun.    Not  a  sound  from  any  of  them. 


The 
march. 


Prairie 
silence. 


6 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


The  prairie  was  profoundly  still  save,  perhaps, 
for  the  call  of  some  lone  goose  seeking  its  kind 
in  the  prairie  pools  or  the  cry  of  a  curlew  that 
fluttered  and  dipped  above  the  wolf  that  had 
come  too  near  her  nest. 

By  ten  o'clock  floods  of  light  poured  from 
the  sky.  The  tall  grass  of  the  lower  swales, 
as  it  bent  and  rolled  in  the  morning  breeze, 
seemed  to  glitter  with  light,  the  prairie  pools 
flashed  it  like  mirrors,  the  gentle  roll  of  the 
divides  received  it  but  projected  no  shadow. 
And  the  heat !  Great  stretches  of  it  could  be 
seen  radiating  upward  from  the  bare  spots  and 
dry  lake  beds,  the  air  grew  rosy  with  it,  the  sky 
became  opalescent.  The  matted  hair  of  the 
Sioux  and  the  tough  hide  of  the  ponies  beat  it 
ojff;  the  women,  children,  and  dogs  endured 
it  with  grim  unconcern.  The  band  pushed 
on.  By  midday  it  had,  perhaps,  picked  up  a 
stray  buffalo  or  antelope,  the  women  and  chil- 
dren had  caught  young  prairie-chickens  or 
gathered  wild  onions,  carrots,  and  lily  bulbs, 
and  there  was  a  pause  in  some  creek  bottom, 
under  a  lone  cottonwood,  for  a  feast  and  a 
doze. 

Again  the  night  camp,  perhaps  at  the  edge 
of  a  long-linked  lake,  fringed  with  wild  rice, 


FROM   AFAR 


where  clouds  of  ducks  came  pouring  in  at 
dusk,  where  blue  herons  waded  along  the 
muddy  edges,  and  white  swans  glided  down 
vast  inclines  to  rest  upon  the  open  water.  No 
fear  of  bog  or  quicksand  could  keep  the  ponies 
out  of  it.  Into  it  they  pushed,  plunging  their 
noses  deep  under  the  water,  drinking  with  long 
gulps,  and  then  lurching  back  to  dry  land. 
And  once  more  at  dusk  the  shadowy  tee- 
pees and  ponies,  the  scouts  seen  in  silhouette 
against  the  twilight  sky,  and  the  blue  overhead 
studded  with  golden  stars. 

Gradually,  after  many  days,  the  prairie-grass 
grew  shorter  and  finally  disappeared.  The  buf- 
falo bunch-grass,  lying  low  and  curling  much, 
took  its  place.  Gradually  the  divides  grew 
higher  and  the  swales  deeper.  Small  hills  and 
valleys  came  into  existence.  The  creeks  turned 
into  little  rivers  with  muddy  water  and  steep, 
sloughing  banks,  cottonwood  grew  along  them, 
with  here  and  there  clumps  of  box-elder  in 
which  deer  and  white  grouse  found  a  refuge 
from  the  noonday  heat.  The  uplands  were 
covered  with  sage-brush  dotted  at  intervals 
by  clumps  of  nopal  and  yucca,  the  soil  had 
become  a  "gumbo,"  the  margins  of  the  pools 
were  fringed  with  a  white  alkaline  sediment 


Prairie 
lakes. 


The  night 
camp. 


Divides 
and  swales. 


The 
uplands. 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Buttes  and 
trenches. 


The  Bad 

Lands. 


Fire  and 
water  wear. 


Strange 
colors. 


instead  of  wild  rice.  Moreover,  there  soon 
came  into  being  abrupt  sinks  in  the  ground — 
isolated  trenches  sometimes  miles  in  length 
with  steep  banks,  sometimes  many  feet  in 
depth.  And  to  balance  them  there  sprang  up 
from  flat  plateaus  tall,  mound-like  buttes  with 
domes  and  turrets  and  towers  rising  in  fan- 
tastic forms.  The  edge  of  the  Bad  Lands  had 
been  reached. 

The  strange  surprises  of  the  Mauvaises 
Terres — those  vast,  treeless  uplands  composed 
of  loose  sands,  gravels,  and  sediments,  and  by 
reason  of  insufficient  grass  or  bush  covering 
washed  and  gulched  by  every  passmg  rain ! 
The  elements  of  fire,  water,  and  air  seemed  to 
have  conspu-ed  against  them.  Water  was  the 
chief  element  to  drag  them  down,  but  the 
wind  honeycombed  and  rounded  them,  and 
fire  burnt  them.  Fires  in  the  underground 
lignite  had  been  burning  for  centuries  and 
were  still  apparent  in  blue  smoke  stealing  out 
of  faults  and  fissures  in  the  ground.  The 
burnt  buttes  showed  their  burning.  Some- 
times they  were  banded  and  streaked  by  a 
hundred  different  tones  of  terra-cotta.  Strange 
color  was  everywhere  in  that  strange  land.  It 
was  in  the  sky,  the  air,  the  soU.    The  alkali 


FROM   AFAR 


dust  stirred  by  the  pony's  hoof,  when  struck 
by  the  sunUght,  turned  into  a  pale  hehotrope, 
and  the  pony's  moving  shadow  was  Hlac-hued. 
And  what  thin,  almost  breathless  atmos- 
phere on  those  high  mesas  that  succeeded  to 
the  Bad  Lands !  We  were  on  the  sage-brush 
and  grass-grown  uplands  of  the  Powder  River, 
and  the  air  was  so  pure  and  clear  that  objects 
at  a  distance  cut  out  in  sharp  detail  and  seemed 
to  move  up  close  to  us.  Hills  twenty  miles 
away  were  apparently  only  a  half-hour's  ride 
from  us,  and  ten-mile  valleys  seemed  little 
larger  than  the  prairie  swales  we  had  left  be- 
hind us.  At  night  the  air  seemed  still  more 
wonderful  because  apparently  non-existent.  It 
did  not  move,  you  scarcely  felt  it  in  breathing, 
there  was  not  enough  of  it  to  make  the  stars 
twinkle.  The  blue  Vega  and  the  white  Arc- 
turus  burned  but  did  not  blaze.  The  Milky 
Way,  with  its  constellations  cast  upon  a  blue- 
black  sky,  shone  but  did  not  glitter.  Oh !  the 
splendor  of  those  soft,  windless  nights  on  the 
Montana  table-lands !  The  smouldering  camp- 
fire,  the  shadowy  teepees,  the  blurred  ponies 
grazing  at  a  distance  seemed  the  necessary 
foils  to  set  off  that  great  peace  and  glory  of 
the  sky. 


Montana 
mesas. 


The  clear 
night  air. 


Planets 
and  con- 
stellations. 


10 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Powder 

Ricer 

ranges. 


An  upland 
valley. 


Sighting 
buffalo. 


There  came  an  evening  when  the  band  drew 
into  a  range  of  hills — beautiful,  grass-grown 
hills  with  rounded  tops  that  flowed  against  the 
sky — and  at  dusk  made  camp  in  a  valley  at 
the  head  of  a  tributary  of  the  Powder.  Before 
sunrise  the  hunters  were  on  the  rounded  tops 
looking  over  into  a  near  valley  perhaps  a 
dozen  miles  in  length.  It  was  not  an  unusual 
valley,  being  treeless  and  covered  with  low 
bunch-grass,  like  many  others.  And  to  the 
untrained  eye  there  was  nothing  unwonted  in 
its  appearance  that  morning  save  that  in  the 
far  end  of  it  the  ground  seemed  covered  for 
many  acres  with  a  brown-black  growth.  The 
more  one  looked  at  this  gro\\i;h  the  more 
strangely  interesting  it  became.  It  was  ap- 
parently motionless,  but  along  the  edges  of  it 
there  were  tiny  brown  spots  in  bunches  that 
moved  out  from  the  mass  of  it,  and  in  the 
central  part  were  other  groups  or  bunches 
that  moved  and  made  gaps  or  openings  in  the 
mass.  The  brown-black  gro\Ni:h  was  alive, 
though  silent  and  apparently  motionless.  It 
was  grazing,  milling,  pawing,  fighting.  It  was 
a  buffalo  herd. 

In  an  hour  or  so  a  portion  of  the  Sioux  had 
ridden  completely  around  the  back  hills  and 


FROM  AFAR 


11 


had  come  in  upon  the  buffalo  herd  from  the 
rear.  The  plan  of  the  hunt  was  to  drive  the 
buffalo  up  the  valley  in  the  direction  of  the 
camp,  where  another  line  of  concealed  hunters 
would  dash  down  upon  them.  Directly  the 
first  party  came  into  sight  a  stampede  took 
place.  The  huge,  brown-black  spot  got  under 
way  with  incredible  swiftness,  forming  as  it 
ran  a  protective  Ime,  with  the  cows  and  calves 
on  the  inside  and  the  bulls  on  the  outer  edge. 
A  blue  haze  of  dust  arose  from  it  through 
which  one  could  occasionally  see  on  the  out- 
side a  Sioux  hunter  lashing  his  pony  along  and 
shooting  as  he  rode.  The  small  puffs  of  smoke 
could  be  seen  but  no  sound  was  heard.  And 
occasionally,  too,  the  pursued  turned  into  a 
pursuer.  An  angry  bull  would  drive  out  from 
the  herd  with  the  directness  of  an  arrow  and 
the  force  of  a  catapult.  Every  horse  and 
rider  knew  the  wisdom  of  keeping  away  from 
that  monstrous  head.  The  young  men,  some 
of  them  still  using  the  bow  and  arrow,  took 
risks  among  the  cows  and  calves,  but  the  eld- 
ers held  a  distance  and  closely  watched  the 
bull  line. 

On  came  the  herd,  bumping,  rumbling,  push- 
ing to  get  away  from  the  worrying  fire  of  the 


The  buffalo 
hunt. 


The  Sioux 
attack. 


The  buffalo 
defense. 


12 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


hunters.  Then  the  waiting  Sioux,  stationed 
in  the  foot-hills  near  the  camp,  charged  down 
upon  the  leaders.  The  great  patch,  attacked 
at  the  head,  swerved  like  a  deflected  wave, 
pushed  off  to  the  left  through  a  defile  in  the 
hills,  choked  up  the  defile  and  rose  on  the  sides 
of  it,  pushed  over  and  on  into  the  big  valley 
of  the  Powder  and,  with  the  hunters,  disap- 
peared from  view.  The  blue  dust  gradually 
settled  LQ  the  valley,  and  the  only  things  now 
seen  were  brown-black  units  of  the  herd,  some 
plunging  here  and  there  with  broken  legs, 
some  tmnbling  over  in  attempts  to  get  up,  and 
some  lying  quite  still.  Creeping  down  toward 
the  still  ones  were  gray  spots  that  first  recon- 
noitred, then  came  close  up  and  set  to  work. 
They  were  the  skinners  from  the  camp. 

For  days  the  herd  was  followed  and  then 
abandoned  for  other  hopes.  The  hunter,  like 
the  gold-digger,  is  never  content  with  the  pres- 
ent. Just  beyond,  over  in  some  other  river 
basin,  the  catch  is  sure  to  be  easier  and  more 
plentiful.  The  band  moved  on  across  the 
Powder,  swam  the  racing  Tongue,  and  began 
the  ascent  to  higher  table-lands.  The  high 
points  of  the  hills  soon  became  fringed  with 
ragged  juniper,   cedar,  and   scrub   pine;    the 


FROM  AFAR 


13 


sage  brush  still  flourished  but  other  upland 
growths  came  in;  the  clay  butte  did  not  dis- 
appear but  rocky  ledges  began  to  crop  out; 
white-tailed  deer  jumped  from  the  bushes  and 
bands  of  elk  scattered  with  a  bump  of  hoofs 
through  the  scrub  pine.  Around  the  edge  of 
almost  every  water  hole  the  paw  of  the  moun- 
tam  lion  could  be  seen  in  the  alkali  mud,  and 
near  it  the  huge  clawed  foot  of  the  silver- 
tip. 

It  was  a  land  of  game — that  high  land  be- 
yond the  Tongue.  The  hunters  were  busy 
from  morning  until  night  and  the  camp  poles 
hung  heavy  with  strings  of  dried  meat.  But 
more  wonderful  than  the  game  and  the  growths 
was  the  enormous  expanse  of  country  that  one 
saw  from  every  high  point.  Was  there  ever 
such  a  land  for  distances,  for  far  sight  across 
the  hills  and  buttes  and  mesas  !  It  was  a  pink 
and  gold  and  lilac  land,  another  terra'-cotta 
world  lying  under  a  rosy  sky.  And  unten- 
anted. Even  the  Indian  tribes  that  usually 
hunted  there  were  not  seen  by  us.  It  seemed 
as  though 

"  We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea." 


The  table- 
lands. 


Deer  and 

elk. 


Unten- 
anted eX' 
panses. 


14 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Love  of  the 
icilderness. 


Far  views 
from  the 
divides. 


Distant 
mountains. 


What  an  exultant  throb  in  the  thought !  The 
call  of  the  wild  is  as  strong  in  the  human  as 
in  the  wolf.  He  is  forever  longing  to  escape 
from  the  gilded  cage  of  civilization,  longing  to 
get  back  to  savagery.  The  Gardens  of  the 
Hesperides  were  never  so  attractive  as  the 
uplands  of  the  wilderness. 

One  day  at  sunset,  at  the  top  of  a  high 
divide,  the  chief  drew  rein  and  sat  still,  look- 
ing away,  across  rivers  and  hills  and  valleys, 
far  away  to  the  south.  We  came  up  beside 
him  and  followed  his  gaze.  Lying  low  down 
along  the  horizon,  perhaps  a  hundred  miles 
in  an  air-line,  was  something  that  looked  like 
heaped  cloud-vapors.  It  was  no  more  than  an 
outlined  mist  against  the  lower  sky,  a  little 
sharper,  perhaps,  in  the  edges  than  elsewhere ; 
and  what  made  it  noticeable  to  our  eyes 
was  its  color.  In  the  sunset  it  had  a  rosy 
hue  and  its  edgings  were  fire-red.  Sometimes 
over  arid  regions  the  cloud  banks  at  sunset 
take  on  just  such  color,  but  these  were  not 
clouds.  The  bronze  profile  of  the  chief  never 
relaxed,  never  showed  either  pleasure  or  pain, 
never  showed  even  so  much  as  recognition  of 
the  sight  before  him.  He  said  something  in 
a  low  tone  but  his  lips  scarcely  moved.    Was 


FROM  AFAR 


15 


it  possible?  Was  that  faint  outline  of  color 
the  high  ridge  of  the  Big  Horn  Mountains 
down  in  Wyoming?  Could  the  glow  of  sun- 
set upon  barren  rock  produce  such  wonderful 
color  as  that? 

The  band  moved  on,  rising  higher  and 
higher  into  the  short  range  known  as  the 
Cheetah  Mountains,*  winding  on  toward  the 
west — hunters,  ponies,  squaws,  papooses,  and 
snarling  dogs  as  before.  The  marches  were 
now  short,  the  hunting  good,  the  camping 
easy;  but  gradually,  as  the  days  came  and 
went,  valleys  were  crossed,  rivers  were  forded, 
new  ranges  were  traversed,  until  there  came 
an  afternoon  when  again  the  chief  and  the 
foremost  riders  drew  rein  upon  a  lofty  height 
to  gaze  a  moment  at  a  grand  panorama  out- 
spread before  them.  It  was  the  look  across 
the  basin  of  the  Big  Horn  River  and  beyond. 
Was  there  ever  such  another  strange  vista !  A 
loosely  cemented  table-land  had  been  gulched 
by  rains  and  slashed  by  rivers  until  thou- 
sands of  enormous,  cone-shaped  peaks  seemed 

*  I  cannot  remember  what,  if  any,  name  the  Sioux 
gave  these  mountains.  On  a  later  trip  across  Mon- 
tana, in  the  early  eighties,  I  found  the  cowboys  call- 
ing them  the  Cheetahs.  The  name  is  now  geographical, 
I  beUeve. 


The 

Big  Horn 
mountain 
tops. 


The 
Cheetahs. 


Valley  of 
the  Big 
Horn. 


16 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Barren 
buttes. 


Across  the 
Yellow- 
stone. 


The 

blossomed 

table-lands. 


The  wide 
reach. 


pitched  tent-like  upon  the  plain.  As  far  as 
the  eye  could  see  this  barren  and  soiuidless 
camping  ground  of  nature  lay  bleaching  under 
a  summer  sun,  the  very  acme  of  desolation. 
The  chief  gave  no  sign  nor  word  about  it,  but 
the  next  day  the  course  lay  more  to  the  north- 
west, and,  after  several  campings,  we  swam 
the  Yellowstone  and  drew  away  into  a  more 
open  country. 

More  grass-lands,  more  buffalo,  and  more 
hunting.  And  then  a  broken,  elevated  coun- 
try leading  up  and  out  to  the  west  stretched 
before  us.  Oh!  the  beauty  of  those  uplands 
covered  with  buffalo  and  bunch-grass  and 
spattered  with  pale  geraniums,  wild  roses,  lav- 
ender daisies,  and  sago  lilies !  As  we  rose  to 
the  tops  of  the  ridges,  what  beauty  in  the 
long,  swinging  lines  of  the  divides !  These 
were  the  high  and  wide  benches  that  led  up 
to  the  Rockies — huge  green-and-golden  mesas 
spread  out  in  apparently  endless  reaches. 
What  air  and  sunlight,  what  glorious  color, 
what  a  feeling  of  elation  and  aloofness  on 
those  camas-blossomed  table-lands!  In  its 
primitive,  untrodden  state  the  sim  never  shone 
on  a  more  beautiful  world.  The  reach  of  it 
in  tremendous  steps  leading  down  to  the 
Missouri  was  so  great  that  no  one  could  imag- 


FROM  AFAR 


17 


ine  it  other  than  a  whole  world  in  itself.  And 
never  a  thought  of  any  other  existence  oc- 
curred to  one.  All  space  was  ours,  time  was 
not,  and  history,  civilization,  and  the  arts 
were  flung  behind  us  like  broken  baubles  of 
the  past. 

We  were  rising  step  by  step,  mesa  by  mesa, 
to  the  great  divide,  the  sky-line  of  the  con- 
tinent, the  high  range  of  the  Rockies.  At  last 
one  day  some  peaks  of  the  range  swung  into 
view.  They  were  far  away,  a  blue-and-silver 
wonder,  and  two  or  three  of  them  were  as 
chalky  white  as  the  cliffs  on  the  Powder  River. 
It  was  difficult  at  noonday  to  persuade  one's 
self  that  they  were  not  mountains  of  chalk. 
But  their  bases  were  too  dark,  their  tops  too 
light  for  deception.  The  white  cones  of  the 
central  peaks  were  unmistakably  snow  caps. 
What  radiant  beauty  in  those  distant  peaks 
against  the  blue !  The  sunset  fire  on  the  Big 
Horn  Mountains  had  not  the  serenity  nor  the 
purity  of  the  snowy  crowns.  For  days  they 
hung  upon  our  horizon.  We  looked  to  them 
in  the  morning  and  saw  them  glittering  white, 
at  noon  we  saw  them  grow  pale  and  shadowy 
under  the  midday  heat,  and  at  night  the  last 
shaft  of  sunset  fire  was  reflected  rose-hued 
from  theu:  summits.    Seen  through  that  thin, 


18 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


untainted  air,  in  that  wild,  untrodden  land, 
the  high  peaks  of  the  Rockies  had  a  peculiar 
glory  of  their  own. 

The  Sioux  band  turned  sharply  to  the  north, 
swung  in  an  enormous  circle  to  the  east,  and 
began  hunting  homeward.  They  were  seeking 
buffaloes,  not  mountains.  The  white  peaks 
sank  below  the  western  verge  and  were  not 
seen  again  for  many  years,  the  table-lands  and 
foot-hills  fell  away  into  the  Bad  Lands,  and 
the  prairie  came  back  to  us.  The  hunt  was 
over.  We  were  once  more  on  the  savage  edge 
of  civilization. 

But  what  memories  of  the  wild  remained ! 
Brightest  of  all  was  the  vision  of  the  far-away 
white  peaks  of  the  Rockies.  Many  ranges  in 
many  portions  of  the  earth — Mexican  sierras, 
Spanish  cordilleras,  Alpine  peaks,  and  even 
"the  frosty  Caucasus" — have  been  seen  and 
studied  since  then;  but  that  sight,  seen  in  the 
early  days  from  the  uplands  of  Montana,  has 
never  faded,  never  been  equalled.  It  was  a 
first  impression  of  the  high  mountains  and  has 
remained  through  many  years  the  most  lasting 
impression  of  all. 

It  is  something  of  a  pity  that  the  Dacotah 
prairies  and  the  Montana  uplands  have  under- 


FROM  AFAR 


19 


gone  such  great  changes.  The  sea  of  grass 
that  stretched  away  far  westward  to  the  set- 
ting sun,  the  prairie  flowers,  the  buffalo, 
wolves,  and  Indians  have  all  been  ploughed 
under,  and  ridges  of  grain  are  now  growing 
where  the  antelope  grazed  and  the  wild  horse 
stamped.  The  wilderness  is  no  more  and  the 
blossomed  plain  but  a  border  memory.  That 
civilization  replaced  the  prairie  with  the  farm 
may  argue  something  for  human  well-being, 
but  the  change  has  been  at  the  expense  of 
natural  beauty.  Nature  always  goes  out  when 
the  white  man  comes  in. 

Fortunately  the  higher  peaks  of  the  Rockies 
are  still  practically  inaccessible.  The  white 
crests  lift  aloft  as  though  defiant  of  change. 
Their  walls  of  rock  and  peaks  of  snow  may 
be  seen  a  long  way  off,  looking  up  from  such 
comparatively  wild  country  still  as  the  Mon- 
tana table-lands.  There  they  seem  to  stand 
as  a  barrier,  a  parapet  against  any  further  in- 
vasion. 

"  Long  may  they  stand — the  ages  through — 
Undimmed  by  time,  untrod  by  man, 
A  flash  of  light  on  Nature's  plan, 
A  wall  of  white  against  the  blue." 


The  great 
change  in 
Dacotah. 


The 

vanished 

life. 


The 

mountain 
wall  still 
stands. 


Indian  dis- 
like of 
mountains. 


The  love  of 
the  open. 


CHAPTER  n 

MOUNTAIN-MAKING 

The  Indians  were  never  too  fond  of  the 
mountains — in  fact,  they  cared  less  for  them 
than  for  the  prairies.  Occasionally  they  went 
into  the  Big  Horn  to  hunt  mountain  sheep 
or  they  pushed  after  elk  up  into  the  high  foot- 
hills of  the  Rockies;  but  they  never  cared  to 
live  there.  They  disliked  the  timber  and  pre- 
ferred the  edge  of  open  country  such  as  the 
Bad  Lands.  In  this  they  were  not  different 
from  the  furred  and  feathered  nature  about 
them.  There  are  few  birds  in  the  mountain 
forests  as  compared  with  those  in  the  open; 
and  what  animals  live  there  do  so  by  force 
of  circumstance.  They  go  there  seeking  pro- 
tection. No  doubt  the  sheep  and  the  goats 
now  love  the  semi-barren  regions  of  the  moun- 
tain above  the  timber-line,  having  adapted 
themselves  to  them ;  but  they  went  there  orig- 
inally under  compulsion,  and  they  live  there 
now  largely  as  a  condition  of  living  at  all. 

With  the  Sioux  there  was  always  some  super- 
stitious fear  regarding  the  mountains.  They 
20 


MOUNTAIN-MAKING 


21 


believed  that  the  Great  Spirit  rested  upon  the 
summit  of  the  Rockies  and  that  sometimes  in 
the  evening  glow  he  sat  there  with  the  white 
feathers  of  his  war-bonnet  streaming  in  the 
west  wind,  smoking  his  red  pipe-stone  and 
sorrowing  over  the  disappearance  of  his  people. 
All  the  lesser  peaks  were  peopled  by  evil 
spirits  who  were  seeking  to  destroy  the  Great 
Father.  Wakon-Shecha,  the  Evil  One,  had 
his  abode  in  weird  canyons  and  deep  moun- 
tain caves,  and  came  forth  by  night  seeking 
whom  he  might  devour.  The  younger  men 
laughed  at  the  tales,  but  they  usually  took 
good  care  to  come  away  from  the  mountains 
before  dark.  They  felt  safer  in  the  open  coun- 
try. 

Their  fears  were  groundless,  to  be  sure, 
but  by  no  means  singular.  Other  races,  with 
larger  frontal  development  than  the  Sioux, 
have  believed  similar  things  about  the  moun- 
tains. Indeed,  it  seems  to  have  been  an  early 
superstition  of  mankind  in  general  that  the 
mountains  were  peopled  with  gods,  that  they 
were  even  created  by  them.  In  the  far-back 
heroic  days  the  mountains  had  been  hurled 
hither  and  yon  in  Titanic  combat;  and  the  lit- 
tle hills  were  dropped  as  landmarks  from  the 


22 


THE   MOUNTAIN 


lap  of  a  huge,  striding  giantess  that  she  might 
know  her  way  back  home.  In  India  Siva  was 
the  creator  and  shaper  of  the  world.  He  dwelt 
in  the  remotest  heights  of  the  Himalayas  en- 
wrapped in  purple-and-gold  clouds  and  seated 
on  a  bed  of  snow-white  glittering  diamonds. 
It  was  from  mountain  tops  that  Buddha  and 
Christ  ascended  into  heaven;  from  them 
Moses  received  the  tables  of  the  law  and  saw 
the  promised  land;  and  in  the  heights  of  the 
Caucasus  Prometheus  was  chained.  Almost 
every  one  of  the  older  countries  had  its  sacred 
mountain,  from  which  the  gods  came  and  went 
— Lofen  in  China,  Fujiyama  in  Japan,  Sama- 
nala  in  Ceylon,  Ararat  in  Armenia,  Lebanon 
in  Palestine.  In  Greece  each  separate  moun- 
tain seemed  to  have  its  presiding  deity.  Pan 
was  in  every  mountain  grove;  Apollo  and  the 
Muses  held  revelry  on  the  top  of  Parnassus; 
while  Zeus  and  his  following  heard  the  hymns 
and  prayers  of  the  faithful  from  the  heights 
of  Olympus. 

At  the  north  the  tale  varied.  A  Scandi- 
navian belief  prevailed  that  the  mountain 
contained  a  hoard  of  gold  guarded  by  gnomes 
and  frightful  dwarfs  and  that  the  queen  of 
the  mountain,  sitting  in  state,  was  a  virgin 


MOUNTAIN-MAKING 


23 


of  ice  who  turned  the  bridegroom  beside  her 
into  everlasting  crystal.  In  Germany  the 
queen  of  the  mountain  was  Venus  and  those 
who  entered  her  court  were  doomed  eternally. 
Tannhauser,  by  the  aid  of  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
was  the  only  one  that  ever  escaped  from  the 
Venusberg.  At  the  entrance  could  be  heard 
the  groans  and  lamentations  of  those  who  had 
ventured  within.  In  the  Harz,  on  the  summit 
of  the  Brocken,  all  the  witches  of  earth  and 
air  assembled  on  Walpurgis  Night  to  enjoy 
high  carnival.  The  mountain  heights  were 
peopled  thick  with  myrmidons,  pygmies,  em- 
mets, fingerlings,  furies,  spectres — all  the  un- 
earthly rabble  that  usually  travels  in  the  train 
of  Mephistopheles.  Weird  lightnings  flashed 
along  the  Blocksberg  and  thunders  shook  the 
ground. 

In  later  times,  though  there  was  a  persistent 
faith  in  the  evil  spirits  of  the  mountains,  there 
also  came  in  again  a  belief  in  good  spirits  who 
dwelt  there  and  ruled  the  destinies  of  men. 
There  was  a  renewal  of 

"  The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion, 
The  power,  the  beauty,  and  the  majesty 
That  had  their  haunts  in  dale  or  piny  moun- 
tain." 


Teutonic 
beliefs. 


The 
Brocken. 


Good 

spirits  in 
mountains. 


24 


THE   MOUNTAIN 


Shrines  to 
Deity. 


Jehovah's 
footstool. 


Scientific 
theories 
and 
changes. 


Shrines  to  the  Deity  were  placed  in  the  high 
hills  as  though  they  were  the  world's  great 
altars.  People  went  up  in  the  mountains  to 
pray,  seeking  a  sign  from  the  heights  in  a 
pillar  of  fire  or  a  cloud  of  storm.  St.  Francis 
and  St.  Catherine,  with  the  long  list  of  Chris- 
tian hermits,  anchorites,  mystics,  dwelt  in  the 
mountains,  and  in  their  names  convents,  chap- 
els, and  monasteries  were  builded  along  eerie 
ledges  and  beetling  promontories — fair  fanes 
of  prayer  that  seemed  to  be  nearer  God  in  that 
high,  thin  air.  For  before  ever  the  mountains 
were  brought  forth,  or  ever  the  earth  and  the 
world  were  formed,  from  everlasting  to  ev- 
erlasting Jehovah  had  been.  He  made  the 
mountains  and  fashioned  the  earth  and  cov- 
ered it  as  with  a  garment  of  blue  sea  and  sky. 

But  the  belief  in  mountains  as  gods,  or  the 
abodes  of  gods,  has  quite  passed  away  in  mod- 
ern times.  Science  has  changed  all  that  and 
furnished  us  with  a  more  prosaic  creed — one 
that  opposes  the  old.  It  was  to  be  expected 
that  human  thought,  after  arguing  for  cen- 
turies that  the  world  was  made  in  six  days  by 
a  personal  God,  should  finally  fly  to  the  other 
extreme  and  insist  that  the  world  was  made 
in  six  hundred  million  years  and  that  it  made 


MOUNTAIN-MAKING 


25 


itself.  The  antagonism  of  science  to  religion 
was  violent;  the  departure  in  the  opposite  di- 
rection was  radical.  And  yet,  notwithstanding 
the  cautious  might  be  inclined  to  reject  both 
beliefs,  it  is  impossible  not  to  pin  some  faith 
to  the  conclusions  of  science.  At  any  rate 
there  is  no  understanding  the  modern  theories 
of  world-building  and  mountain-forming  ex- 
cept by  paying  heed  to  the  finger-prints  of 
geology. 

It  seems  that  science  eventually  grows  weary 
of  its  own  hypotheses  and  discards  them  from 
time  to  time  quite  as  readily  as  it  does  the  con- 
clusions of  religion.  The  nebular  hypothesis 
of  La  Place  was  true  so  long  as  no  one  gave  it 
serious  thought,  or  found  it  in  conflict  with 
newer  theories;  but  now  it  has  been  modified 
and  practically  superseded  by  a  planetessimal 
theory  put  forth  by  Professor  Chamberlin. 
The  new  hypothesis  certainly  seems  more  plau- 
sible than  the  old.  It  assumes  the  origin  of 
our  planetary  system  in  a  hot,  gaseous  body 
which,  approached  by  some  large  or  controlling 
star,  threw  off  from  itself  protuberances  beyond 
its  own  controlling  gravity.  These  protuber- 
ances of  gaseous  matter  became  planetessimals, 
or  scattered  particles  of  a  nebula — the  common 


World- 
building. 


The 

nebular 

hypothesis. 


The 

planetes- 
simal 
theory. 


26 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


The  spiral 
nebula. 


Collision 
and  con- 
junction. 


The  solar 
system. 


white  nebula  of  the  telescope,  spiral  in  form, 
with  an  outward  rotary  motion  from  left  to 
right,  and  with  a  large  central  mass  or  sun. 
The  nebulous  matter  of  the  spiral  was  in  a 
finely  divided  state  (as  the  continuous  spec- 
trum implies)  and  came  to  that  condition  prob- 
ably by  a  process  of  cooling.  The  particles  of 
it,  both  great  and  small,  revolved  in  elliptical 
orbits  about  the  central  sun  and  gradually 
formed  in  aggregations  or  knots  along  the  arms 
of  the  spiral,  as  shown  to  us  by  the  camera. 
These  knots  were  the  nuclei  of  planets  and  it 
was  to  them,  or  to  the  sun  itself,  that  the  re- 
maining diffused  and  scattered  particles  of  the 
nebula  were  eventually  added.  The  mode  of 
addition  or  accretion  was  not  by  simple  gravi- 
tation but  by  collision  and  conjunction  in  or- 
bital motions.  The  planetessimals  or  flying 
particles  had  each  an  elliptical  orbit  of  vary- 
ing eccentricity  about  a  common  centre,  and 
they  were  all  finally  gathered  in  by  "the  cross- 
ing of  the  elliptical  orbits  in  the  course  of  their 
inevitable  shiftings.^* 

Out  of  this  process  the  planetessimal  hy- 
pothesis develops  a  solar  system  such  as  ours, 
gives  consistent  views  of  the  requisite  dis- 
tribution  of   mass   and   momentum,    of   the 


MOUNTAIN-MAKING 


27 


spacing  out  of  the  planets,  of  their  directions 
of  rotation,  of  their  variations  of  mass,  of  their 
varying  densities,  and  of  other  pecuHarities. 
In  a  sentence  it  accounts  for  the  formation  of 
the  earth  by  a  system  of  planetessimal  accre- 
tion instead  of  postulating  a  molten  liquid 
world,  revolving  in  space,  and  gradually  cool- 
ing from  the  outside  toward  the  centre. 

The  theory,  therefore,  seems  to  combat  the 
old  idea  that  the  earth  has  an  interior  of  molten 
fire  and  that  we  are  living  merely  on  its  thin 
outer  crust.  It  postulates  the  gradual  accre- 
tion of  planetessimals,  the  upbuilding  of  the 
world  by  slow  additions,  and  the  solidifying  of 
the  globe  at  the  centre  extending  and  cool- 
ing outwardly  as  it  grew.  The  internal  heat 
of  it — sufficient  to  mould  it  into  spherical 
shape — was  largely  the  result  of  after-com- 
pression through  gravity.  During  the  growth 
of  the  earth,  as  to-day,  large  amounts  of  heat 
were  carried  off  by  volcanoes.  The  source  of 
this  heat  is  thought  not  to  lie  in  the  centre 
of  the  earth,  but  in  a  middle  zone  where  the 
compression  would  be  mathematically  greater. 
And  in  that  zone  also  are  supposed  to  be  the 
sources  of  earthquakes. 

This  theory  of  the  origin  of  our  solar  system 


The  new 
belief. 


Sources  of 
heat. 


28 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Stages  of 
growth. 


The 

accession 

period. 


Heat  and 
gravity. 


Vulcan- 
ism. 


is  not  vital  to  an  understanding  of  the  earth's 
subsequent  history.  We  need  not  start  so  far 
back,  and  still  perhaps  gather  some  notion 
of  how  the  mountains  were  formed.  If  we 
begin  with  a  cooled  but  volcanic  globe,  the 
after  stages  of  growth,  whereby  it  acquired 
irregularities  of  surface,  may  be  traced  with 
some  certainty.  There  seem  to  have  been 
several  of  these  stages,  covering  enormous 
periods  of  time.  The  first  was  one  controlled 
by  the  accessions  of  planetessimals  to  the  ex- 
terior. It  is  possible  that  some  of  the  pro- 
tuberances of  the  earth,  some  of  its  surface 
deformities,  are  due  to  the  irregular  manner 
in  which  the  infall  of  planetessimals  took 
place.  It  is  possible,  again,  that  the  globe 
never  at  any  time  became  a  perfect  sphere 
and  that  its  present  broken  surface  is  its 
original  condition  less  modification  by  the 
elements.  Geological  science,  however,  does 
not  admit  such  possibilities.  It  postulates  for 
this  first  period  only  increasing  heat  and 
gravity. 

The  second  stage  is  that  of  vulcanism.  The 
heat  arising  from  compression,  collision,  and 
molecular  rearrangement  resulted  in  some 
melting  in  local  spots,  in  arrested  ascensions. 


MOUNTAIN-MAKING 


29 


gas  formations,  explosions,  volcanic  eruptions. 
This  transfer  of  molten  material  from  the  in- 
terior to  the  exterior  in  the  great  volcanic  age 
was  no  doubt  something  of  a  factor  again  in 
forming  the  irregularities  of  the  earth's  sur- 
face; but  vulcanism  in  itself  is  not  sufficient 
to  account  for  sunken  sea-beds,  lifted  conti- 
nents, and  folded  mountains. 

The  third  stage  —  the  hydro-atmospheric 
eon — seems  responsible  for  the  continent  and 
sea-bed  making  and  the  consequent  readjust- 
ments by  the  stretching  and  wrinkling  of  the 
crust.  It  seems  that  when  the  water  vapor 
of  the  atmosphere  by  cooling  finally  reached 
the  saturation-point  it  took  liquid  form.  This, 
with  some  underground  condensation,  made 
up  what  is  known  as  the  hydrosphere.  The 
water  came  out  of  the  atmosphere,  and 
up  from  the  ground,  and  settled  in  the  de- 
pressed volcanic  pits.  These  grew  and  became 
crater  lakes,  and,  finally,  by  aggregation  and 
depression,  they  became  shallow  seas.  The 
water-covered  areas  acquired  higher  specific 
gravity  than  the  land  areas,  the  settling  of 
sediments  in  the  basins  increased  the  weight, 
the  sea-beds  gradually  subsided.  As  the  sea- 
beds  sank  the  continents  arose. 


The  hydro- 
atmospher' 
ic  period. 


Subsidence 
of  sea-beds. 


30 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Uplifted 
areas. 


Cooling  of 
the  earth. 


Buckling 
of  the 
crust. 


The  sinkings  of  the  ocean-beds  were  the 
master  movements,  not  only  in  what  they  left 
exposed  in  high  peaks  and  ranges,  but  in  what 
they  forced  up  or  bent  or  twisted  as  they 
sank.  No  doubt  these  movements  were  the 
cause  of  many  uplifted  areas,  of  the  stretch- 
ing of  the  continents,  of  the  thrusts  and  many 
small  foldings  and  wavings  of  the  crust;  but 
it  seems  that  they  do  not  account  for  the 
formation  of  ranges  like  the  Alps  or  the  Rockies. 
They  were  doubtless  contributing  causes,  for 
not  one  but  many  movements  have  combined 
to  make  the  mountains  what  they  are  to-day. 
Among  them  the  wrinkling  of  the  crust  through 
age  and  the  cooling  of  the  earth  must  be 
reckoned  with. 

It  is  an  accepted  theory  that  the  earth  as 
it  cooled  contracted  in  volume  and  that  the 
outer  shell  of  it  warped  and  buckled  into 
waves  and  folds.  Apparently  these  foldings 
wrinkled  over  the  continents  in  mountain 
ridges  and  under  the  seas  in  abysmal  depres- 
sions; but  in  reality  perhaps  the  continents 
and  sea-beds  were  caused  by  the  contraction 
of  the  globe  as  a  whole,  or  at  least  of  the  whole 
crust  of  it,  whereas  the  mountains  may  have 
been  formed  by  foldings  of  the  outside  layers 


MOUNTAIN-MAKING 


31 


of  the  crust  only.  The  first  would  be  a  matter 
of  huge  lateral  thrust  and  vast  readjustments 
of  the  entire  earth  surface;  the  second  would 
be  a  matter  of  folding  ranges,  snapping  arches, 
and  splintered  peaks  over  limited  districts. 

Such  at  least,  in  brief,  is  the  hypothesis  re- 
garding the  making  of  the  high  mountains 
put  forth  by  Chamberlin,  Suess,  and  others, 
and  largely  accepted  by  the  modern  scientific 
world.  It  does  not  account  for  everything, 
and,  besides,  it  requires  belief  in  some  rather 
arbitrary  figurings.  For  instance,  the  crust 
of  the  earth  that  by  wrinkling  produced  the 
Alps  and  other  high  ranges  is  mathematically 
computed  to  be  only  an  outer  layer  of,  say, 
three  to  five  miles  in  thickness.  That  sheer 
zone  seems  unbelievably  thin.  And,  again,  the 
explanation  of  the  rise  of  old  sea-beds  into 
mountain  heights  is  not  very  satisfactory  un- 
less it  be  postulated  that  the  earth  was  once 
a  perfect  sphere,  and  entirely  covered  with 
water.  The  modern  scientists  are  inclined  to 
think  that  the  general  movement  has  been  a 
sinking  one,  and  that  the  upward  movements 
or  foldings  have  never  equalled  it.  And  yet 
it  is  very  certain  that  many  of  the  high  moun- 
tain ranges  are  formed  of  sedimentary  rocks 


Folding 
ranges. 


Objections 
to  the  new 
theory. 


The 
general 
sinking 
movement. 


32 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Faulting. 


Exposed 
face  walls. 


Elevations 
and  de- 
pressions. 


that  were  once  under  the  sea.    The  theory  is 
not  entkely  free  from  objection. 

There  is  a  second  method  of  mountain-mak- 
ing of  wiiich  geological  science  takes  cognizance, 
but  its  workings  though  common  are  not  ap- 
parent ever;yv\'here.  This  is  mountain-making 
by  "faulting."  Certain  cross-sectional  breaks 
in  the  earth's  crust  allow  portions  of  the  crust 
to  sink  and  in  doing  so  push  up,  or  dislocate, 
or,  at  least,  leave  exposed  in  sheer  walls  other 
huge  portions.  It  is  as  though  a  stone  arch 
had  been  disrupted  and  some  stones  of  it 
forced  up  while  others  were  permitted  to  drop 
down.  Occasionally  this  dislocation,  with  an 
exposure  of  face  walls,  takes  place  on  a  grand 
scale,  as  in  the  Vosges  or  the  Oregon  moun- 
tains, and  sometimes  its  presence  is  not  sus- 
pected save  by  geologists.  The  plains  of  Lom- 
bardy,  for  instance,  lying  under  the  Alps,  are 
supposed  to  be  the  result  of  faulting.  Often 
a  great  elevation  is  accompanied  by  a  conse- 
quent depression  of  a  near  surface.  It  is  even 
conjectured  that  the  white  Alps  and  the  gray 
Carpathians  have  had  something  to  do  with 
the  depressed  MeditCTranean  and  Adriatic 
south  of  them.  But  about  that  there  is  no 
certainty. 


MOUNTAIN-MAKING 


33 


A  third  method  of  mountain-making  is  rec- 
ognizable in  vulcanism.  Volcanic  mountains 
are  simpler  in  construction  than  those  in  the 
ranges.  They  are  merely  the  results  of  ac- 
cumulation. The  volcanic  cones  that  we  have 
seen  grow  from  decade  to  decade  are  uniform 
in  shape  and  have  no  wrinklings  or  foldings 
of  rock  about  them.  Colima,  Kilauea,  Vesu- 
vius, Etna,  and  their  kind,  are  the  blow-holes 
of  an  overheated  under-surface,  and  their  ashes 
and  cinders,  while  formidable  aggregations 
close  to  view,  are  comparatively  unimportant 
on  the  earth's  surface.  That  volcanic  action 
and  lava  beds  were  once  more  prevalent  than 
now  is  highly  probable.  There  was  a  time 
when  possibly  the  whole  surface  of  the  earth 
was  pitted  by  volcanic  craters.  But  vulcan- 
ism is  not  thought  sufficient  to  account  for 
the  surface  deformations  of  the  globe  that  we 
know  to-day. 

The  theory  of  a  century  ago  that  all  moun- 
tains were  produced  by  upheaval  no  longer 
obtains.  Science  has  reversed  itself  and  de- 
cided that  subsidence  and  compression  rather 
than  upheaval  caused  the  various  ranges. 
And  yet  upheaval  would  explain  range  for- 
mation quite  as  readily  as  the  mole  explains 


Volcanic 

mountain' 

making. 


Cones  and 
craters. 


Upheaval 
as  an  ex- 
planation. 


34 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


The  heav- 
ing force. 


Fire  and 
water  form- 
ing steam. 


the  ridge  across  the  lawn  if  the  heaving  force 
(a  large  enough  mole)  could  be  discovered.  Is 
it  not  possible  that  vulcanism  may  be  that 
force?  Why  is  it  necessary  to  assume  that 
the  heat  of  the  interior  of  the  earth  mani- 
fested itself  in  only  one  way — in  the  spec- 
tacular spouting  volcano?  Suppose  there 
were  at  one  time  rock-fissures  filled  with  half- 
molten  lava  lying  under  what  are  now  the 
Rockies  and  the  Andes.  Suppose  that  through 
sand  or  gravel  beds,  or  along  broken  rock- 
cleavages  the  waters  of  the  Pacific  seeped 
through  to  these  underground  beds  of  lava.* 
Would  the  steam  generated  be  sufficient  to 
lift  the  mole-ridge  of  the  Rockies  without, 
perhaps,  breaking  through  the  overhead  arch 
and  escaping  into  the  atmosphere  ?  Might  not 
the  steam  follow  the  line  of  least  resistance 
along  a  disrupted  rock  ledge  perhaps  for  hun- 
dreds of  miles,  straining,  heaving,  crackling 
the  beds  above  it  without  escaping  entirely? 
For  a  wrinkle  of  the  earth  made  by  lateral 

*  The  volcano  Cosequina,  at  a  late  eruption,  covered 
the  ground  about  for  twenty-five  miles  with  muddy 
water  sixteen  feet  deep  in  places.  Stromboli  throws 
out  vapor  every  fifteen  minutes,  and  many  other  vol- 
canoes show  the  presence  of  steam  in  enormous  quan- 
tities. 


MOUNTAIN-MAKING 


35 


thrust  the  Rockies  seem  too  large,  and  too  ar- 
bitrary in  form,  while  the  Alps  and  the  Cau- 
casus are  too  concentrated.  The  Alps,  for 
instance,  if  flattened  out  would  make  at  least 
seventy-five  miles  of  crust.  Perhaps  it  was 
a  lake  or  sea  of  lava  under  the  Alps  instead 
of  a  long-fissured  bed  that  was  set  in  ac- 
tion by  Mediterranean  water,  as  possibly  the 
Caucasus  by  the  Black  Sea  and  the  Caspian, 
and  the  Himalayas  by  the  Indian  Ocean.  And 
how  shall  lateral  thrust  account  for  such 
round  and  isolated  eruptions  on  the  earth's 
surface  as  the  Black  Hills?  Are  earthquakes 
— and  they  happen  almost  always  along  the 
seashore — caused  by  muffled  underground  ex- 
plosions of  steam  and  lava?  Was  the  inter- 
nal heat  greater  in  the  mountain-making  era  ? 
And  what  is  now  merely  an  earthquake — was 
it  then  a  direct  upheaval  into  mountain  ranges  ? 
Were  the  causes  the  same  but  the  later  effect 
reduced  by  exhaustion  of  power?  Science 
gives  negative  answers  to  such  questions. 

A  fourth  method  of  mountain-making, 
spreading  over  a  wider  field  of  activity  and 
with  far  greater  results  in  tearing  down  if  not 
uplifting  the  earth's  surface,  may  be  found 
in  erosion.     Mountains  have  been  carved  out 


Making  of 
the  Alps. 


Lateral 
thrust  in- 
sufficient. 


Effects  of 
erosion. 


36 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Water 
wear  on 
buttes  and 
hills. 


Mountain 
disintegra- 
tion. 


from  the  earth's  crust,  valleys  have  been 
widened  and  sunk,  and  huge  canyons  like  that 
of  the  Colorado  have  been  cut  from  the  solid 
rock  by  water.  Wherever  the  watercourses 
run  beds  are  sunken  and  shores  of  high  or  low 
degree  are  left  standing,  sometimes  in  the 
form  of  bluffs,  as  along  the  upper  Mississippi, 
and  sometimes  in  rounded  mountains,  as  in  the 
Catskills.  The  buttes  of  the  Bad  Lands,  with 
their  fantastic  forms,  are  merely  the  result  of 
erosion;  and  many  of  the  high  mountains  of 
Colorado  are  hard  cores  of  stone  from  which 
water  has  washed  away  the  softer  surroundings. 
Originally,  perhaps,  all  these  regions  were  ele- 
vated plateaus  heaved  up  by  the  sea,  and  were 
then  (starting  with  an  uneven  surface)  beset  by 
winds,  rains,  and  running  streams  until  ranges 
of  hills  were  left  prominent  by  the  washing 
out  of  their  intermediate  valleys. 

Even  the  high  mountains,  heaved  upward  by 
tremendous  lateral  thrust — mountains  like  the 
Himalayas — are  subject  to  great  modifications 
through  erosion.  They  are  no  sooner  made 
than  the  elements — water,  wind,  snow,  frost 
— begin  tearing  them  down,  denuding  them, 
disintegrating  them.  The  earliest  stream- 
beds  running  down  the  mountain  sides  were 


MOUNTAIN-MAKING 


37 


possibly  the  beginnings  of  what  are  now  known 
as  the  transverse  valleys.  The  streams  carved 
out  the  valleys,  cut  through  the  passes,  rounded 
the  foot-hills,  and  by  their  sedimental  deposits 
made  the  plains.  Just  so  the  intermediate 
valleys  of  the  parallel  ranges  were  the  courses 
of  the  larger  streams  and  the  beds  of  the  long 
mountain  lakes.  All  waters  are  agents  of  de- 
nudation and  are  engaged  in  dragging  down 
the  high  ranges  to  the  level  of  the  flat  plains. 
That  mountains  of  tremendous  proportions 
have  been,  and  have  passed  away  from  the 
face  of  the  earth,  there  can  be  little  doubt. 
Under  the  grass-grown  plains,  the  level  lands, 
one  finds  folds  in  the  rock  strata  indicating 
plainly  enough  the  roots  of  mountains  now 
worn  to  the  level  and  hidden  under  vegetation 
and  river  deposits.  The  half-way  stage  of  de- 
struction is  apparent  in  many  of  the  low  hills 
and  table-lands — in  the  round  mountains  of 
Saxony,  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  the  up- 
lands of  Bohemia.  The  high  mountains  where 
destruction  is  now  going  on  so  fiercely  are  the 
newcomers  on  the  globe.  The  sharp  edges  of 
the  Alps  and  the  Andes  suggest  their  compara- 
tively recent  origin.  Eventually  those  mighty 
ranges  will  be  rounded  like  the  Tuscan  liills 


Early 
stream- 
beds. 


Worn- 

down 

mountains. 


The  Alps 
and  Andes 
new  moun- 
tains. 


38 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


or  flattened  like  the  Arizona  mesas.  Nothing 
endures.  The  "everlasting  hills"  is  awe-in- 
spiring and  poetic,  but  it  is  not  true.  Change 
in  every  aspect  and  feature  is  the  law  of  the 
globe  itself,  as  of  the  life  that  lives  upon  it. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  HILLS 

If  we  accept  the  explanation  of  the  earth's 
structure  offered  by  geologists  we  shall  have 
to  abandon  some  of  the  theories  advanced  by 
the  more  enthusiastic  nature  writers.  Mr. 
Ruskin,  for  instance,  is  very  right  in  pointing 
out  that  the  mountains  with  their  ragged,  up- 
right lines  give  a  feeling  of  action,  and  that 
the  plains  by  their  flat,  horizontal  lines  give 
the  opposite  feeling  of  repose;  but  he  is  mis- 
leading in  likening  the  mountains  to  the  violent 
muscular  action  of  man  "brought  out  with 
fierce  and  convulsive  energy,  full  of  expression, 
passion,  and  strength."  It  is  a  false  analogy 
to  say  that  "the  mountains  are  the  bones  of 
the  earth."  And  to  intimate  that  they  have 
risen  by  initial  energy  into  "vast  pyramids 
or  wedges,  flinging  their  garment  of  earth  away 
from  them  on  each  side"  is  to  put  forth  an 
untenable  conception  of  mountain-making. 

Whatever  feeling  there  may  be  about  action 
in  the  mountains  and  repose  in  the  plains  is 


Ruskin  on 
mountains. 


False 
analogies. 


40 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Mountain 
action  and 
repose. 


Ranges  are 
cracks  in 
the  shell. 


purely  subjective  with  us.  The  ranges  them- 
selves are  passive  masses  of  inorganic  matter 
pushed  into  place,  or  accumulated,  or  carved 
out  by  compelling  circumstances.  As  for 
muscle  and  bone  structure  in  or  about  the 
mountains  they  never  had  existence.  The 
long  sierra  running  up  and  down  the  western 
continent  is  not  the  spinal  vertebrae  of  the 
globe  nor  is  it  a  place  where  any  extra  strength 
is  put  out  either  for  defense  or  display.  On 
the  contrary  it  is  a  distinct  line  of  weakness. 
The  globe  is  supposed  to  be  covered  by  a  thin 
outer  shell,  somewhat  like  that  of  a  hazelnut, 
perhaps,  and  the  mountains  are  simply  cracks 
or  lifts  or  faults  in  the  shell.  Strength  in  rela- 
tion to  the  rest  of  the  shell  is  not  their  quality, 
and  yet  because  of  their  enormous  height  and 
mass  they  do  produce  the  feeling  of  power 
with  us.  A  slash  in  the  earth,  like  the  Grand 
Canyon  of  the  Colorado,  creates  a  similar  im- 
pression. But  we  should  not  be  misled  by 
either  of  them.  They  are  uplifts  or  washouts, 
points  of  fracture  or  wear  in  the  shell,  and  not 
layers  of  extra  granite  placed  for  brace  or  sup- 
port. 

Quite  as  misleading  as  this  idea  of  mountain 
strength  is  the  fancy  that  the  low  hills  are  the 


THE  HILLS 


41 


buttresses  or  supports  of  the  higher  ridges. 
Mr.  Ruskin  has  it  that  "the  masses  of  the 
lower  hills  are  laid  over  and  against  their 
sides  like  the  masses  of  lateral  masonry  against 
the  skeleton  arch  of  an  unfinished  bridge,  ex- 
cept that  they  slope  up  to  and  lean  against 
the  central  ridge."  Once  more  there  is  a  su- 
perficial truth  in  this — a  truth  of  appearance. 
Erosion  has  worn  away  the  lower  hills  at  the 
top  and  extended  them  outward  at  the  bottom 
so  that,  where  there  are  no  intervening  valleys, 
they  have  the  look  of  leaning  inward  toward 
the  central  range.  But  the  appearance  will 
not  bear  analysis.  Constructively,  the  foot- 
hills do  not  "lean  against"  the  high  ridges 
any  more  than  the  little  wrinkles  in  the  skin 
of  a  withered  apple  lean  against  the  big  wrin- 
kles. The  foot-hills  are  usually  the  points 
where  the  lateral  pressure  has  been  less  violent 
and  as  a  result  the  buckling  is  less  marked — 
that  is  all.  As  for  "support,"  a  pyramid  is 
usually  upheld  by  its  base,  but  a  mountain  is 
not  always  in  pyramidal  form.  Sometimes  it 
comes  down  by  a  sheer  wall  or  precipice  to  the 
plain  or  the  sea  without  intervening  or  slop- 
ing hills,  as  witness  the  front  range  of  the 
Rockies  in  Colorado.    And,  again,  the  lower 


Low  hills 
as  but- 
tresses. 


Truth  of 
appear- 
ance. 


Foot-hills. 


42 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Isolated 
hills. 


Buckling 
of  crust  not 
uniform. 


The  Alps 
peculiar. 


hills  are  often  some  distance  removed  from  the 
central  ridges.  They  may  be  a  group  quite 
by  themselves  supporting  nothing,  as,  for  ex- 
ample, the  Black  Hills,  or  they  may  be  in 
detached  localities  as  with  some  of  the  hills 
in  the  American  and  Mexican  deserts. 

The  truth  is  that  the  plains,  the  foot-hills, 
and  the  high  mountains  are  all  parts  of  the 
one  crust  and  they  have  undergone  various 
stages  of  rest  or  upheaval  just  as  the  lateral 
pressure  of  the  contracting  shell  has  lifted 
them  or  neglected  them.  The  precise  form, 
or  even  the  general  form,  of  the  buckling  can- 
not be  laid  down  arbitrarily.  That  is  to  say, 
there  is  no  rule  of  mountain-making — no  one 
form  to  which  they  all  pay  allegiance.  It 
is  an  error  to  suppose  that  one  range  is 
formed  like  another,  and  that  when  you  have 
seen  one  you  can  generalize  about  all.  The 
Alps,  from  which  most  of  the  generalizations 
have  gone  out,  are  perhaps  the  most  abrupt 
and  violent  of  the  mountain  groups  and  are 
more  of  an  exception  than  a  rule.  The  Mexican 
mountains,  w4th  their  central  ridge  running  for 
hundreds  of  miles,  are  quite  different.  Again, 
the  foot-hills  of  the  Vosges  are  no  criterion 
whereby  one  can  judge  the  foot-hills  of  the 


THE  HILLS 


43 


Rockies.  As  for  the  plains,  some  of  them  lie 
low  down  and  flat  like  those  of  Lombardy  or 
Hmigary,  while  others  are  high  up  and  broken 
like  those  of  Tibet  or  New  Mexico. 

Yet  different  as  they  may  be  in  height  and 
formation,  there  still  remain  these  three  phases 
of  the  continental  crust — the  mountain,  the 
hill,  and  the  plain.  Each  class  within  itself 
must,  of  course,  be  regarded  in  its  various 
manifestations,  for,  again,  there  is  no  general 
description  that  will  fit  a  plain  or  a  hill  more 
than  it  will  epitomize  a  mountain.  Among 
the  hills,  for  instance,  every  county  in  Eng- 
land will  produce  something  a  little  different 
from  every  other  county,  and  each  state  in 
America  from  Massachusetts  to  California  can 
boast  the  unique  form  or  color  or  bulk  of  its 
particular  group  of  hills.  Nevertheless,  there 
is  a  tendency  on  the  part  of  nature,  after  she 
has  given  birth  to  the  hills,  to  fashion  them  by 
erosion  into  one  common  form.  That  form  is 
somewhat  like  an  inverted  bowl — an  arch  lift- 
ing toward  the  zenith.  This  upward  curve  of 
the  hills  is  offset  by  valleys  that  sink  bowl- 
shaped  in  the  opposite  direction  toward  the 
centre  of  the  earth.  The  hill  alternates  with 
the  valley,  and  the  flow  upward  and  down- 


The  un- 
disturbed 
plains. 


Variety  in 
the  hills. 


English 
and  Ameri- 
can hills. 


Forms  of 
hills. 


44 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Gravel 
hills. 


Water 
wear  upon 
them. 


Volcanic 
hills. 


ward  is  apparently  as  rhythmical  as  sea  waves 
in  a  Greek  decorative  pattern. 

But  whatever  the  tendency  in  hill  and  valley 
building,  there  is  no  such  uniform  appearance 
as  we  have  suggested.  Many  factors  come  in 
to  modify  or  change  the  smoothness  of  the 
domed  hills,  such  as  faults  in  the  strata  and 
water  wear,  which  produce  gorges  and  canyons, 
cliffs  and  bluffs,  ravines  and  hollows.  The 
hills  that  closely  approach  the  bowl  shape  are 
composed  of  gravel  or  loose  silt.  They  are 
frequently  cut  out  of  old  sea-beds,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  Montana  buttes,  or  have  been 
deposited  as  the  residue  of  glaciers.  They 
have  no  rock  strata  about  them  and  hence  are 
easily  washed  by  rains  into  the  form  of  a  knoll 
or  knob  or  mound.  Usually  they  are  gut- 
tered on  the  sides  and  in  the  course  of  time 
flatten  down  to  the  level  of  the  plain.  They 
are  infrequently  met  with  and  are  not  precisely 
what  we  mean  by  "hills." 

Nor  is  the  volcanic  ash,  heaped  in  a  cone 
and  afterward  denuded  by  erosion,  any  nearer 
approach  to  a  hill.  This  form  of  mound  is 
seen  in  many  parts  of  the  world,  is  generally 
without  vegetation,  and  is  usually  gray  and 
forbidding  in  appearance.      The  lava  and  sco- 


THE  HILLS 


45 


riee  of  it  make  a  hard  kernel  difficult  to  wear 
down,  and  perhaps  it  will  stand  against  the 
elements  for  centuries  because  of  its  fire- 
hardened  contents.  Eventually  it  goes  the 
way  of  all  earth-protuberances,  that  is,  breaks 
down  under  water  wear,  perhaps  gathers  unto 
itself  a  crater  lake,  and  becomes  merely  a 
guide-book  curiosity.  It  is  never  at  any  time 
the  kind  of  hill  we  associate  with  a  livable 
or  lovable  landscape. 

The  rock  beds  that  have  been  heaved  up, 
but  without  sufficient  lateral  thrust  to  cause 
snapping  at  the  top  of  the  arch,  are  perhaps 
of  commoner  occurrence.  Their  stratification 
is  not  easily  recognized  unless  there  are  breaks 
in  the  surface.  When  such  exposure  takes 
place  the  rock-layers  are  usually  found  to  be 
of  sandstone,  limestone,  pudding-stone — strata 
of  a  sedimentary  or  secondary  origin.  The 
granites  and  gneisses — the  harder  igneous 
rocks — do  not  usually  appear  in  these  hills, 
though  there  is  no  sharp  division-line  in  the 
appearance  of  soft  and  hard  rocks,  here,  nor 
there,  nor  elsewhere.  The  quality  of  the  rock, 
however,  often  determines  the  shape  of  the 
hill  and  the  shape  lends  a  clue  to  its  identity. 
The  softer  sandstones  with  clays  and  gravels 


Crater 
lakes. 


Hills  of 
rock  for- 
mation. 


Soft  and 
hard  rocks. 


46 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Limestone 
beds. 


Faulted 
structure. 


The  verti- 
cal/ace 
wall. 


Fate  of  the 
face  wall. 


produce  something  rounded,  as  the  harder 
granites  something  abrupt  or  precipitous. 

The  limestones  He  in  beds  sometimes  many 
feet  in  thickness,  and  occasionally  these  beds 
break  through  from  top  to  bottom  like  a  sun- 
dried  brick.  When  one  part  of  the  brick  sinks 
down  and  leaves  the  other  part  exposed  to 
view,  we  have  what  is  known,  geologically, 
as  a  "fault."  This  faulted  structure  produces 
a  variety  of  hill  familiar  enough  in  almost 
every  land.  It  is  the  hill  with  a  sloping  back 
and  a  precipitous  front.  The  face  wall  is  often 
sheer.  From  it  water  drips  and  mosses  cling 
and  swallows  come  and  go  in  flights,  and  at 
its  top  local  government  or  benevolence  builds 
an  observatory  from  which  one  may  look  out 
across  a  plain  at  a  "view."  It  is  not  usually 
a  high  hill,  though  lofty  mountains  m  plenty 
have  been  made  by  this  faulted  structure.  Its 
vertical  face  wall  produces  an  exaggerated  idea 
of  height  and  perhaps  deceives  us.  Often  the 
rounded  hill  is  quite  as  high,  but  its  gradual 
slope  upward  minimizes  its  altitude. 

The  precipice  is  not  exclusively  of  faulted 
origin.  The  cutting  of  a  stream  frequently 
leaves  sheer  walls  and  rocky  bluffs  exposed, 
as  one  may  see  at  the  present  time  in  many 


THE   HILLS 


47 


places  up  and  down  the  valleys  of  the  ]\Iis- 
sissippi  and  the  Hudson.  In  its  later  stages 
the  abrupt  wall  disappears  by  weathering,  the 
bluff  becomes  rounded,  the  stream-bed  spreads 
into  a  valley,  the  canyon  into  a  clove  or  a 
notch,  and  we  have  such  rounded  hills  and 
mountains  as  those  of  the  Catskills  and  the 
Adirondacks. 

In  fact,  the  rounded  hill  with  which  every 
community  is  more  or  less  familiar  is  the 
every-day  illustration  of  erosion — water  wear, 
wind  wear,  ice  wear.  The  hills  of  England  and 
Scotland,  now  covered  with  grass  and  heather, 
are  perhaps  the  most  typical  examples.  Else- 
where, in  arid  regions  where  there  is  no  vege- 
tation to  stop  the  rush  of  winds  and  rains, 
strange  forms  are  often  produced  by  this 
sculpture  of  the  elements.  The  mushroom- 
shaped  knoll  of  rock,  the  enchanted  mesa,  the 
organ-piped  summits  and  honeycombed  foot- 
hills are  frequently  met  with  in  every  desert 
region. 

Nine  times  out  of  ten  the  rounded  hills  are 
but  worn-down  mountains — old  roots  of  ranges 
that  once  lifted  skyward  with  needles  bristling 
like  the  Dolomites,  but  are  now,  after  cen- 
turies, merely  smooth  fragments  of  their  former 


Rounded 
hills. 


Effects  of 
erosion. 


Worn- 
down 
mountains. 


48 


THE   MOUNTAIN 


selves.  Mountains  beaten  to  the  plain  by  the 
elements !  Such  is  the  common  fate  of  them 
all,  no  matter  how  diamond-edged  the  pin- 
nacles, nor  how  thick  the  strata,  nor  how 
massive  the  guarding  walls.  The  Appalachians 
and  the  Tuscan  mountains,  in  their  lower 
spurs,  are  the  mute  witnesses  of  change  through 
century  after  century.  ]\Iany  other  ranges  on 
the  face  of  the  globe  bear  similar  testimony. 
It  is  nature's  plan  throughout  all  of  her  works 
to  build  up  with  one  hand  and  tear  do\NTi  with 
the  other.  Death  is  a  process  of  renewal  akin 
to  life.  The  new  comes  out  of  the  old.  AYorlds, 
and  upon  them  mountain  ranges,  are  born  and 
die  and  are  renewed  not  unlike  humanity. 

The  worn-down  mountains  turned  into  hills 
that  make  the  flowing  sky-line  of  our  horizon 
have  always  caught  our  fancy  and  held  it 
longer  than  the  snowA^  peaks.  We  live  with 
them,  know  them,  love  them.  There  is  some 
physical  as  well  as  sentimental  reason  for  our 
liking.  The  abrupt  line  of  a  splintered  moun- 
tain ridge  checks  and  harries  the  eye  in  a  meas- 
ure as  a  cross-cut  saw  the  hand  that  passes 
over  it ;  but  the  rounded  line  of  a  gentle  hill — 
Hogarth's  line  of  beauty — soothes  and  pleases 
the  eye  by  its  rhythm,  its  continuity.    There  is 


THE  HILLS 


49 


no  sharp  opposition  about  the  latter.  It  is 
true  that  the  hills  and  valleys  do  not  flow 
from  one  to  another  with  the  uniformity  of 
sea  waves;  yet,  nevertheless,  it  is  the  tendency 
of  erosion  in  its  first  stage  to  model  the  hills 
into  crests  and  billows  and  finally  to  beat 
them  down  to  a  flat  sea  surface.  In  the  mod- 
elling process  lines  of  wonderful  beauty  are 
evolved,  lines  as  serpentine  as  those  of  water, 
and,  indeed,  formed  by  water — the  most  grace- 
ful line-maker  of  all  the  elements. 

The  obvious  among  these  hill  lines  are  the 
edgings  or  outlines.  We  see  the  hills  in  relief 
against  the  sky,  and  their  rounded  contours 
seem  to  pass  from  one  into  the  other  without 
a  break  in  the  rhythmical  sequence.  They 
curve  and  interweave  along  the  sky  and  down 
through  the  shadow  of  the  valleys  until  the 
flattened  silhouette  becomes  a  beautiful  tracery 
of  greenish  purple  against  golden  blue.  All 
low  hills  are  outlined  with  curves  that  catch 
up  and  carry  on  one  another,  that  repeat  and 
strengthen  one  another,  that  reverse  and  re- 
new one  another.  The  sweep  downward  of  a 
hillside  is  continued  in  a  sweep  outward  into 
the  valley  of  the  talus;  the  descending  lines 
on  either  side  of  a  ravine  meet  at  the  bottom 


Edgings 
and  out- 
lines. 


Valley 
lines. 


50 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


of  the  ravine  and  flow  downward  into  the 
valley  again;  along  the  hill  bases  every  deposit 
of  silt  or  debris  from  a  stream  spreads  in  the 
lines  of  a  flattened  fan  upon  the  valley;  and 
along  the  hilltops  every  arch  of  soil  or  rock 
has  the  lines  of  an  upright  fan  spread  against 
the  sky. 

Now,  these  lines  of  beauty  are  shown  to  the 
best  advantage  only  on  sparsely  covered  hills 
— that  is,  hills  devoid  of  thick  brush  or  trees. 
The  heather  of  the  Scotch  hills  or  the  grass 
of  the  English  hills  along  the  sea  does  not 
perceptibly  check  the  flow  of  the  lines,  but  the 
trees  of  the  Harz  or  the  Catskills  muffle  and 
confuse.  As  soon  as  timber  covers  the  slopes 
the  lines  are  softened,  weakened,  perhaps  de- 
stroyed. It  is  possible  in  sculpture  to  place 
drapery  over  the  human  figure  and  make  it 
reveal  the  very  thing  it  covers;  but  you  cannot 
have  foliage  covering  the  hills  and  still  show 
through  it  the  rock  structure  or  the  earth 
curves  beneath  it.  Of  course,  almost  every 
Englishman,  with  ]Mr.  Ruskin  and  Mr.  Hamer- 
ton  for  prophets,  despises  the  bare  hills  and 
is  always  talking  about  green  trees,  pleasant 
shadow,  and  stinlit  meadow,  as  though  all 
landscape  should  be  judged  by  the  city  park. 


THE  HILLS 


51 


He  has,  perhaps,  never  seen  the  bare  hills  of 
Greece  in  summer  or  the  barren  mountains 
of  Morocco  in  spring;  he  does  not  care  for 
lines  in  landscape,  but  only  for  color,  light, 
and  shade. 

But  the  drawing  of  the  hills  is  their  most 
commanding  feature.  And  the  lines  become 
more  expressive  with  their  severity.  The 
heather  and  grass  grown  hills  are  wonder- 
fully graceful,  strangely  beautiful  in  combina- 
tion and  pattern;  but  the  angle  lines  of  the 
splintered  peak,  the  ragged  ridge,  the  notched 
descent,  though  they  may  w^orry  the  eye  and 
are  eloquent  of  desolation,  nevertheless  re- 
veal mountain  force  and  character.  The 
strength  of  the  hills  is  theirs  and  with  it  some 
of  the  sublimity  of  the  higher  ridges.  Not 
only  the  lines  but  the  surface  of  bare  rock  pro- 
duces the  feeling  of  permanence,  endurance, 
and  power.  Every  cowboy  who  rides  the  open 
foot-hills  of  the  Rockies  is  impressed  by  that 
feeling.  He  will  not  reason  it  out  aesthetically 
but  he  knows  it  instinctively.  The  bare  hills 
are  his  delight  and  the  timbered  slopes  are  his 
aversion.  It  is  not  that  the  one  is  merely 
easier  to  ride  over  than  the  other.  He  feels 
in  the  Arizona  hills,  for  instance,  the  mass 


The  Greek 
hills. 


Drawing 
of  the  hills. 


Foot-hills 
of  the 
Rockies. 


52 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


and  majesty  of  the  earth,  but  in  the  New 
Jersey  hills  only  a  graceful  effect  which  he 
perhaps  dislikes  for  its  weakness.  And,  in  de- 
gree, he  is  right  in  his  conclusion.  The  bare 
hills  and  ranges  are  the  most  powerful  features 
of  landscape. 

For,  be  it  observed,  that  the  feeling  of  power 
and  permanence  in  the  hill  lies  not  alone  in 
the  outlined  pattern  against  the  sky  but  in 
what  that  pattern  reveals  of  mass.  There  is 
something  more  than  mere  height  and  breadth. 
The  third  dimension  (thickness)  is  also  there. 
The  depth  tlirough,  the  body  and  bulk  and 
weight  of  the  hill,  are  inevitabl}'  suggested 
in  the  outline.  How  impressively  and  power- 
fully such  painters  as  Courbet  and  Winslow 
Homer  have  shown  this  mass  of  the  bare  hill 
and  the  mountain  base!  They  have  caught 
the  outline  in  its  abrupt  strength  and  modelled 
the  surface  into  positive  bulk.  Again,  Hob- 
bema,  Cuyp,  Wilson,  Homer  Martm  have 
used  the  outlined  hill  in  the  foreground  of 
their  pictures,  as  a  barrier  whereby  they  could 
suggest  great  distance  back  and  beyond  it. 
And,  still  again,  with  Rembrandt  and  Her- 
cules Seghers,  the  dark  wall  of  the  hill,  whether 
cut  diagonally  or  horizontally  across  the  fore- 


THE   HILLS 


53 


ground,  was  used  to  emphasize  the  penetrating 
Hght  and  profound  depth  of  the  sky  above  it. 
The  rock  barrier,  in  nature  as  in  art,  not  only 
reveals  itself,  but,  by  contrast,  the  beyond  of 
light  which  it  may  be  placed  against  and  partly 
hide. 

But,  with  all  the  strength  of  the  barren 
heights,  it  is  impossible  to  deny  the  charm  and 
loveliness  of  the  grass-grown  or  close-covered 
hills.  The  heather  of  the  Grampians  in  early 
September  is  the  added  note  of  color  splendor 
upon  fine  form  and  beautiful  linear  pattern. 
And  how  beautiful,  beyond  all  others,  perhaps, 
those  Scotch  hills  mingle  and  cross  and  weave 
their  graceful  lines ! 

"  Fair  lines  of  beauty  made  by  light  and  shade 
In  cadence  swinging  like  an  ocean  swell. 
Now  bright  with  purple,  now  with  silver  grayed, 
How   gracefully   you    charm    us  with  your 
spell ! 

"  You  pass,  you  vanish,  in  the  dusk  of  night. 
You  faint  and  swoon  beneath  the  noontide 
glare. 
You  are  mere  tracery  of  broken  light. 

But  while  you  last  how  beautiful !  how  fair  1 " 

Surely  the  purple  tapestry  of  the  hills  was 
never  more  brilliantly  shown  than  here  1    And 


Rock  bar- 
riers and 
light. 


The  Gram- 
pians. 


54 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Grace  of 
the  Eng- 
lish hills. 


BriUiant 
colors  of 
American 
hills. 


New  Eng- 
land in 
October. 


Nature's 
high  color 
gamut. 


just  SO,  with  perhaps  less  splendor  and  more 
refinement  of  color,  in  the  sparsely  grown  grass- 
hills  of  Hampshire  and  Kent  bordering  on  the 
Channel.  Their  coloring  is  a  thin  staining  of 
the  canvas  only,  but  it  helps  out  the  drawing. 
The  lines  are  but  the  edges  of  pale  fields  of 
color  that  flow  from  tone  to  tone,  but  they  are 
sufficient.  In  America  more  brilliant  effects 
are  seen  when  the  hillsides  are  spread  thick 
with  daisies  or  wild  asters  or  golden-rod,  but 
the  hill  lines  are  not  so  well  shown  under  the 
taller  growths. 

A  more  pronounced  note  of  color  comes  to 
the  hills  when  they  are  covered  with  the 
yellow  and  scarlet  foliage  of  autumn.  Those 
who  have  not  seen  the  brilliant  mantle  of  the 
Catskills  or  the  New  England  hills  in  early 
October  hardly  know  to  what  a  height  nature 
carries  her  gamut  of  hues.  Nothing  in  Europe 
is  comparable  to  it,  and  our  English  friends, 
who  dearly  love  their  blue-green  Constable 
landscape,  can  only  gasp  and  wonder  over 
our  panorama  of  carmine  and  gold.  But  their 
objection  that  our  autumn  hillside  is  "too 
loud"  finds  small  acceptance.  Nature  knows 
how  to  stir  the  whole  of  her  glowing  palette 
into  harmony  as  readily  as  to  beat  accord  out 


THE   HILLS 


55 


of  a  few  sombre  notes.  The  great  half-tone 
of  autumnal  Hght  and  air  cements  and  binds 
all  colors  no  matter  what  their  hue  or  qual- 
ity. 

With  the  winter  comes  a  great  change  in 
the  color  scheme.  The  trees  are  stripped  of 
leaves,  the  flowers  are  gone,  the  grass  lies 
matted  and  dead,  the  boulders  push  out  of 
the  ground,  and  the  hillside  changes  its  curved 
lines  for  broken  and  abrupt  lines.  It  is  the 
season  for  drawing  more  than  color,  and  yet 
what  delicate  grays,  silvers,  and  lilacs  are 
noticeable  at  just  this  time!  One  wonders 
occasionally  if  the  flare  of  autumn  is  not  out- 
done by  this  precious  livery  of  silver  and  gray. 
It  is  so  refined,  so  serenely  beautiful !  With 
the  coming  of  the  snow  there  is  still  another 
change.  The  color  scheme  is  weakened  by  a 
great  admixture  of  white  and  the  linear  pat- 
tern is  very  much  cut  down  by  the  long  curves 
of  fallen  snow.  These  snow-lines,  especially 
when  made  by  the  wind,  are  often  quite  perfect, 
as  we  shall  see  hereafter;  but  they  are  not 
strong,  and  the  hills  are  mufiled  or,  at  best, 
shown  in  swollen  or  lumpy  proportions  under 
the  white  drapery. 

The  bare  hills  of  the  desert  that  know  neither 


Hills  in 
winter. 


Snow  upon 
the  hills. 


56 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Desert 
hills. 


Color  of 
desert  hills. 


Peaks  of 
the  Colo- 
rado Des- 
ert. 


summer  foliage  nor  winter  snows  are  often  the 
most  perfect  in  color  of  them  all.  The  terra- 
cottas, the  porphyry  reds,  the  pale  lavenders, 
the  dull  chromes,  the  rose-madders  flush  the 
rock  surfaces  at  every  turn,  and  the  peculiar 
light  and  gas-blue  air  of  the  desert  give  them 
all  a  weird  and  hectic  bloom  that  baffles  the 
painter's  palette  to  imitate.  It  is  astonishing 
that  bare  rocks  can  reflect  so  much  splendor, 
that  nature  out  of  inorganic  matter  can  wring 
so  much  color  that  suggests  organic  life.  True 
enough,  it  is  the  color  of  disintegration  and 
is  brought  about  by  decay,  just  as  the  rotting 
of  glass  produces  its  iridescence;  but  the  color 
is  beautiful  for  all  that.  And  what  a  never- 
ending  wonder  to  some  that  nature  should 
lavish  so  much  precious  pigment  on  the  barren 
hills  !  Doctor  Johnson  thought  that  the  moun- 
tains were  so  much  hopeless  sterility  "dis- 
missed by  nature  from  her  care."  The  cock- 
ney limitation  of  that  thought  is  amazing. 
WTiat  would  he  have  said  had  he  seen,  all  in 
a  summer  glow,  the  red,  opalescent  peaks  of 
the  Colorado  Desert  or  the  heliotrope  hills  of 
Athens  that  frame  the  Parthenon ! 

Oftentimes  the  low  hills  as  well  as  the  moun- 
tains seem  little  more  than  reflections  of  sky 


THE  HILLS 


57 


splendor,  protruding  points  of  the  earth  de- 
signed to  catch  high  Hght  and  color.  At  dawn 
what  a  target  they  are  for  the  arrows  of  the 
sun!  Over  the  horizon  and  across  the  plain 
the  first  shafts  of  the  sun  hit  the  hills.  It 
may  be  the  high  crags  of  the  precipice  that 
receive  the  first  flashes,  but  the  splendor  soon 
spreads  broader  and  lower  until  the  whole 
hill  has  its  shining  crown  of  gold.  At  noon 
the  light  is  more  diffused,  more  omnipresent, 
so  that  we  do  not  perhaps  notice  its  rays  beat- 
ing on  the  crest,  but  it  is  now  in  a  greater  glow 
than  ever,  notwithstanding  no  long  shadows 
help  out  our  imagination  by  forcing  a  contrast. 
At  sunset  the  shadow  of  the  hill  is  flung  far 
along  the  plain  to  the  east,  a  golden  or  pinkish 
or  fire-red  light  returns  to  the  crags;  and  the 
last  light  of  evening,  when  all  the  plain  is 
sunk  in  gloom,  is  that  golden  or  reddish  beam 
upon  the  rocky  wall. 

Finally,  there  are  the  moonlight  and  the  star- 
light of  the  hills  with  all  their  glamour;  and  on 
sultry  summer  evenings,  when  the  twilight  is 
nearly  done  and  the  air  is  hushed  and  no  moon 
is  in  the  sky,  there  is  the  distant  flash  of  light- 
ning along  the  crest.  How  the  rivulet  of  light 
flashes  upon  ledge  and  dome,  spreads  over  the 


Catch 
points  of 
sunlight. 


Sunset  on 
the  crags. 


Moonlight 
in  the  hills. 


58 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Lightning 
flashes. 


The  hills  as 
romance- 
makers. 


Sentiment 
produced 
by  the  hills. 


forests,  flares  upon  the  heated  air,  and  il- 
lumines the  thickening  sky!  How  huge,  then, 
the  mass  of  the  hills,  how  much  larger  they 
seem  in  the  dusk  than  in  full  sunlight !  And 
what  mystery  in  the  vast  gloom  of  the  flash- 
lighted  valleys,  what  romance  in  the  golden- 
pinnacled  tops ! 

The  hills  at  twilight  and  dusk  have  always 
been  great  romance-makers  with  youth,  great 
producers  of  retrospection  with  age.  As  we 
watch  them  the  thought  is  about  ourselves 
rather  than  the  hills.  The  distant  crags  and 
domes  merely  put  us  in  the  mood.  In  them- 
selves they  have  no  romance  and  we  strain 
the  facts  in  speaking  of 

"The  vision  of  the  hills  and  the  souls  of  lonely 
places." 

The  hills  have  neither  vision  nor  souls;  they 
are  merely  inanimate  rock  or  gravel,  covered 
with  grass  or  trees.  But  the  romance  produced 
in  us  by  the  hills  is  real  enough  sentiment. 
Put  the  cause  of  the  emotion  where  we  will, 
there  is  a  poetry  about  lonely  places  and  there 
are  visions  in  the  hills  for  those  who  have  the 
eyes  to  see  them.    To  youth  the  hushed  lone- 


THE  HILLS 


59 


liness  and  the  far  distance  have  to  do  with 
the  romance  of  Hfe  and  love,  and  the  vision  of 
the  hills  is  a  dip  into  the  future.  Always  the 
thought  is  subjective.  The  lightning  of  the 
sky  begets  a  lightning  of  the  mind.  We  think 
fast  and  see  futurity  in  flashes.  We  read  our 
future  in  a  mirror  or  a  fountain,  but  we  plan 
our  action  in  lonely  places.  How  many  Davids 
have  gone  down  from  the  hills  in  the  morning 
into  the  camp  of  the  Philistines !  How  much 
reality  has  followed  fast  upon  the  romance  of 
the  hills ! 

Aged  eyes  watch  that  flashing  light,  too; 
but  it  means  to  them  something  different, 
something  deeper,  perhaps.  The  vision  is  a 
hark  backward  to  the  long- vanished  days  of 
youth,  and  the  quiet,  the  content,  the  deep 
peace  of  what  remains.  There  is  a  realization 
of  the  goodness  of  life,  of  the  wisdom  of  crea- 
tion, of  the  beauty  of  the  world.  The  hiUs 
and  mountains  were  never  "dismissed  by  na- 
ture from  her  care,"  but,  with  the  lonely 
places,  are  the  spots  of  earth  where  we  can  get 
back  once  more  to  nature's  heart  after  a  life- 
time spent  in  the  dreary  Londons  of  the  world. 
Back  to  the  hills  that  sent  us  forth !  The  rain 
that  goes  down  by  the  rivers  to  the  sea  and 


Their  in- 
spiration. 


Visions 
seen  in 
the  hills. 


The  return 
to  the  hills. 


60 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


returns  in  clouds  to  the  hills  completes  its 
circle  not  more  truly  than  humanity.  The 
Great  Mother  that  led  us  out  brings  us  back 
again  to  a  resting-place  in  the  quiet  hills. 


CHAPTER  IV 
FOOT-HILLS  AND  ROCK  BASES 

The  foot-hills  are  somewhat  different  from 
the  worn-down  mountains  or  eroded  hills  that 
perhaps  surromided  the  village  of  our  boyhood 
and  taught  us  our  first  lessons  in  mountain 
forms.  As  their  name  implies,  they  are  the 
hills  that  lie  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains  and 
usually  they  belong  to  a  range  or  system.  The 
word  "foot"  is  not  always,  however,  to  be 
taken  literally,  because  it  implies  closeness, 
whereas  some  of  the  foot-hills  lie  at  a  distance 
from  the  mountain  bases.  In  fact,  they  may 
be  separated  by  wide  valleys  and  plains;  they 
may  be  a  little  range  in  themselves  and  yet 
still  belong  to  the  greater  range.  However,  the 
foot-hills  of  a  range  usually  lie  near  the  larger 
mountains  and  are  regarded  as  stepping-stones 
to  the  higher  peaks. 

The  original  buckle  and  snap  of  the  greater 
heights  were  probably  repeated  in  the  hills, 
but  with  declining  emphasis.  Thrust  made 
them  both,  but  the  bend  upward  of  the  cen- 
tral peaks  absorbed  the  thrust  and  left  less 
61 


The  out- 
lying hills. 


Stepping- 
stones  to 
higher 
peaks. 


Less  buck* 
led  than 
the  high 
peaks. 


62 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Wrinkles 
of  the  outer 
critst. 


Wash  from 
the  upper 
peaks. 


wrinkling  for  the  lower  hills.  That  the  latter 
are  less  broken  and  splintered  is  not  to  be 
doubted;  and  when  the  arch  has  been  snapped 
through  and  the  rocks  are  exposed  to  view 
they  are  usually  not  the  hardest,  nor  the  oldest, 
nor  the  deepest  of  the  rock  strata.  They  are 
the  last  beds  laid  down  in  geological  times  and 
are  sedimentary  rocks  of  sandstone  or  lime- 
stone. In  other  words,  the  wrinkling  has 
apparently  disturbed  the  outer  layers  of  the 
crust  more  than  the  harder  beds  of  granite 
lying  deeper  down.  Occasionally  the  lower 
hills  will  expose  granite  or  gneiss,  but  these 
are  wom-down  mountains  rather  than  foot- 
hills. 

Everything  wears  down.  The  foot-hills 
bear  the  brunt  of  it,  perhaps  more  than  the 
upper  peaks,  because  the  accumulated  wash 
from  the  peaks  seems  to  be  thrown  off  on  the 
hills  somewhat  as  an  upper  roof  may  shelve 
rain  and  snow  upon  a  lower  one.  They  are 
not  only  eroded  by  the  ice  and  water  gathered 
from  their  own  exposed  area,  but  they  are 
gullied  and  undermined  and  slashed  through 
by  the  swift  glacier  streams  pouring  down 
upon  them  and  washing  around  them  from 
the  axial  range.    Any  surface  that  lifts  above 


FOOT-HILLS  AND  ROCK  BASES 


63 


the  level  of  the  plain  is  material  for  disintegra- 
tion— food  for  the  elements.  In  the  flattening 
process  the  higher  slowly  settles  upon  the  lower 
and  the  lower  gradually  pushes  out  into  the 
plain  and  helps  form  the  flat  spaces. 

The  trend  of  the  foot-hills  is  usually  that 
of  the  main  range — that  is,  they  make  lesser 
ranges  paralleling  the  greater.  If,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  Rockies,  the  trend  is  from  south  to 
north  the  foot-hills  will  generally  correspond, 
even  though  they  may  lie  off  at  quite  a  dis- 
tance from  the  central  ridge  or  continental 
divide.  Occasionally  there  are  cross-spurs 
that  break  through  the  line,  making  transverse 
valleys  and  mountain  passes,  but  uniformity 
is  usually  peculiar  to  long  systems  like  the 
Rockies.  Not  so  with  the  Alps.  The  foot- 
hills there  are  as  irregular  as  the  main  trend. 
The  whole  group  shows  buckling,  twisting, 
wrenching  in  the  most  violent  forms.  Science 
can  only  conjecture  as  to  how  it  was  produced. 
But  the  result  of  central  peaks  and  outlying 
foot-hills  is  there  as  elsewhere.  Just  so  with 
the  Carpathians  or  the  Caucasus.  They  are 
flanked  or  headed  or  surrounded  by  foot-hills, 
according  to  the  direction  from  which  the 
original  thrust  came. 


The  higher 
settling 
upon  the 
lower. 


Trend  of 
the  foot- 
hills. 


CrosS' 
spurs. 


Alpine 
foot-hills. 


64 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Transverse 
ranges  not 
buttresses. 


Feeling  of 
support. 


Eternal 
peaks. 


It  has  already  been  stated  that  the  foot- 
hills are  not  the  supports  of  the  higher  peaks, 
though  the  water  wear  upon  them  and  the 
taluses  at  their  bases  create  the  feeling  of  a  lean 
inward — a  shoring  up  of  the  greater  range. 
Nor  are  the  transverse  ranges  the  buttresses 
of  the  main  range,  though  they  again  create 
such  a  feeling.  In  the  P^Tenees  these  cross- 
ranges  run  off  from  the  main  chain  like  the  ribs 
from  a  spinal  column.  This  is  equally  true  of 
the  California  sierras.  Often  the  main  line  is 
broken  by  long  ribs  leading  off  at  right  an- 
gles and  almost  always  the  buttress  effect  is 
apparent.  But  the  resemblances  are  superfi- 
cial. There  is  no  actual  support,  though  there 
is  a  feeling  of  it  which  lends  stability  and 
strength  to  the  whole  range.  Flanked  or  sur- 
rounded by  outer  walls,  the  central  citadel 
seems  unattainable,  impregnable;  and  it  is^ 
perhaps,  small  wonder  that  people  speak  of 
the  "eternal  peaks."  Counting  by  human 
centuries,  we  have  never  known  time  to 
wither  or  bend  or  bow  their  strength.  They 
are  as  near  "eternal"  as  an}i;hing  within  our 
ken. 

Humanity  in  its  settlements  has  never  cared 
for  the  high  mountains  or  their  valleys.    The 


FOOT-HILLS  AND  ROCK  BASES 


65 


mountain  people,  such  as  the  Swiss,  are  ex- 
ceptional and  not  too  successful  either  phys- 
ically or  mentally.  One  feels  always  that  they 
have  pitched  their  tent  in  a  harsh,  rather  un- 
grateful locality.  But  the  races  of  men  have 
ever  been  well  disposed  to  snuggle  up  close 
to  the  foot-hills.  The  modern  cities  have  been 
built  beside  great  rivers  on  the  flat  lands,  but 
in  Biblical  times  cities  were  founded  upon 
rocks  in  the  lower  hills;  and  where  no  hills 
existed,  as  in  the  Mesopotamian  valley,  the 
Assyrians  built  a  huge  brick  platform  in  imita- 
tion of  a  flat  hill  and  reared  their  city  upon 
that.  Athens  was  built  upon  and  about  the 
Acropolis,  the  Areopagus,  and  the  limestone 
heights  between  Cephissus  and  Ilissus.  Rome 
and  Constantinople  are  both  builded  on  their 
seven  hills,  and  the  hills  around  about  Jeru- 
salem are  famous. 

Higher  and  more  characteristic  foot-hills, 
however,  lie  back  from  many  of  the  older 
cities.  Out  from  Rome,  a  few  miles,  the  so- 
called  Alban  Mountains  appear  as  outliers 
of  a  higher  range.  In  the  ancient  days  the 
Romans  built  villas  there,  as  at  Tivoli,  and,  no 
doubt,  rejoiced  at  the  "view"  across  the  cam- 
pagna  toward  the  Eternal  City.    What  a  view 


Mankind 
in  the  foot- 
hills. 


Assyrian 
cities. 


The  Alban 
Mountains 
near  Borne. 


66 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


it  is  even  to  this  day !  From  Frascati,  looking 
out  at  twilight,  with  the  glamour  of  dusk  lying 
upon  the  great  plain,  the  twinkling  of  growing 
lights  in  the  city,  and  a  broad  band  of  fiery 
splendor  in  the  western  sky,  it  is  the  very 
poetry  of  vision.  And  nothing  could  be  more 
romantic  than  the  same  view  a  little  later, 
when  with  the  rising  moon  there  is  a  purplish- 
blue  effect  spread  through  the  air  and  the  final 
flare  of  twilight  gives  the  effect  of  Rome  red- 
dening in  its  ashes — the  Rome  of  Xero  burned 
to  the  socket. 

The  views  from  the  Acropolis  at  Athens 
looking  toward  Phaleron  Bay,  from  Constan- 
tinople over  the  Marmora,  from  Schonbrunn 
near  Vienna,  from  the  Catskill  Mountain 
House,  from  the  Poland  Spring  House  are  all 
so  beautiful  that  we  quite  lose  interest  in  the 
kind  of  hill  we  are  standing  upon.  The  Alban 
^Mountains,  for  instance,  are  not  foot-hills  in 
the  sense  of  being  made  by  lateral  pressure; 
they  are  volcanic  upheaval.  The  crater  lakes 
of  Xemi  and  Albano  suggest  as  much,  and  the 
tufa  and  the  lava  of  the  hills  themselves  con- 
firm it.  Truer  foot-hills  lie  about  Florence  or 
to  the  south  of  Bologna  or  at  the  north  of 
Italy,  where  the  railway  from  Milan  to  Venice 


FOOT-HILLS  AND  ROCK  BASES 


67 


passes  along  the  southern  base  of  the  Alps. 
The  rounded,  well-wooded  hills  about  Brescia 
or  Bergamo  or  Verona  are  typical  examples  of 
Alpine  outliers,  as  the  mesa  ranges  of  Sonora 
and  Chihuahua  are  of  the  great  Sierra  Madre. 
In  beauty  of  form  and  color  the  foot-hills 
lying  along  the  California  coast  from  San 
Francisco  to  San  Diego  are  quite  the  equal 
of  any  in  the  world.  They  are  made  up  of 
loose  granite,  are  sparsely  covered  with  short 
growths,  and  have  been  rounded  by  winds  and 
rain  until  they  are  as  smooth  as  the  Scotch 
hills.  In  the  afternoon  light  they  take  on 
hues  of  heliotrope  as  a  body  color  and  upon 
this  are  often  blended  olive  shades  of  live-oak 
and  sycamore — the  whole  flattened  in  a  decora- 
tive pattern  like  tapestry.  At  Santa  Barbara 
these  hills  come  down  to  the  blue  waters  of 
the  Pacific  with  a  strange  mingling  of  warm 
and  cool  colors  that  is  nevertheless  harmonious 
and  supremely  beautiful.  Farther  south  and 
back  from  the  coast  the  bare,  desert  foot-hills 
of  the  San  Bernardino  range  have  only  warmth 
of  hue,  but  this  warmth  is  wonderfully  deli- 
cate in  rose-reds,  opals,  lilacs,  terra-cottas,  and 
air  blues.  There  is  no  mountain  color  like 
that  seen  in  and  about  the  desert  ranges. 


Coast 
Range 
foot-hills. 


Hills  at 

Santa 

Barbara. 


68 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


It  is  usually  along  the  backs  of  the  foot- 
hills that  one's  pathway  lies  in  mountain- 
climbing.  When  they  are  in  buttress  form  and 
join  on  the  main  sierra  the  ascent  is  very 
easy,  especially  if  the  ground  is  bare.  You 
are  then  able  to  look  back  on  the  ascending 
steps  of  your  climb,  and  nothing  is  more  pleas- 
ing to  the  climber  than  studying  his  back- 
track. As  one  rises  what  wonderful  views  are 
revealed,  what  sweeps  of  valley  depth,  what 
lifts  of  mountain  ridge !  From  the  uplands  of 
the  Rockies  in  ^Montana,  to  the  east  of  what  is 
now  the  Glacier  National  Park,  the  look  away 
over  rounded  foot-hills  and  sweeping  table- 
lands to  the  great  grass  plains  is  a  sight  never 
to  be  forgotten.  The  wonderful  beauty  of  the 
long  hill  lines,  the  great  rest  of  the  plateau 
lines,  the  sweep  of  the  horizon  lines  make  up 
a  framing  for  a  vast  expanse  of  yellow  grass 
dotted  here  and  there  by  prairie  lakes  of  re- 
flected cobalt  blue.  The  wildness,  the  aloof- 
ness, the  vastness  of  it  are  unsurpassed.  The 
look  backward  from  the  foot-hills  of  the  Alps 
over  the  plain  of  Lombardy  is  more  pastoral, 
more  civilized,  more  varied  in  color,  but  in- 
finitely less  interesting  in  light,  air,  and  color. 
The  great  spaces  of  the  wilderness  have  a 


FOOT-HILLS  AND  ROCK  BASES 


69 


quality  of  beauty  about  them  that  no  panorama 
of  civilized  lands  can  equal  or  even  suggest. 

As  you  come  nearer  to  either  the  Alps  or 
the  Rockies,  working  your  way  through  the 
valleys,  you  meet,  even  among  the  hills  them- 
selves, with  the  deep-cut  ravine  and  the  rocky 
canyon.  They  have  usually  been  brought  into 
existence  by  some  glacier  torrent  or  boulder- 
carrying  stream  that  has  chiselled  and  ground 
and  worn  its  way  downward  into  the  rock  until 
a  great  chasm  is  revealed.  Sometimes  the 
mountain  defile  is  produced  by  a  fault  or  break 
in  the  strata  which  has  left  a  precipitous  wall 
on  one  side  and  at  its  foot  a  small  valley.  In 
either  case,  by  wear  or  by  fault,  a  rock  base  is 
exposed  and  a  portion  of  the  crust  of  the  earth 
is  brought  into  view.  The  face  of  the  wall  is 
usually  so  sheer  that  the  bare  rock  is  almost 
the  only  thing  seen,  and  its  bulk  and  propor- 
tions are  usually  so  stupendous  that  we  are  in 
the  presence  of  the  overpowering  perhaps  be- 
fore we  realize  it. 

No  doubt  the  hardness,  and  hence  the  en- 
durance and  permanence,  of  the  rock  wall  has 
much  to  do  with  its  impressiveness.  The 
whole  earth  is  metal  in  an  impure  form,  and 
a  precipice  is  part  of  its  hardened  rim  shown 


70 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Canyon 
of  the 
Colorado. 


The  self- 
supporting 
globe. 


Precipices. 


Height  of 
precipices. 


to  US  by  the  chance  cut-out  of  a  valley  or  a 
canyon.  It  is  a  mere  scratch  in  the  surface, 
and  yet  when  you  are  down  at  the  bottom  of 
the  scratch,  as  in  the  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen 
or  the  Canyon  of  the  Colorado,  what  an  over- 
whelming impression  it  produces!  The  huge 
walls  tell  us  that  the  world  was  not  built 
merely  for  yesterday  and  to-day.  It  was  con- 
structed on  the  principle  of  a  self-supporting 
globe — the  strongest  of  all  building  principles 
— and  though  it  may  be  liquid  or  only  half- 
hardened  matter  wdthin,  yet  its  outer  shell  is 
of  such  massive  masonry  that  it  should  last 
into  eternity.  It  is  braced  by  its  own  curve 
and  supported  by  its  own  continuous  circle. 
Nothing  can  crush  it  save  contact  with  another 
flying  world. 

This  feeling  of  bulk  and  power  is  intensified 
when  the  eye  travels  along  such  a  face  wall 
as  that  underlying  the  Jungfrau  or  struggles 
up  the  abrupt  sides  of  the  Rockies  near  Colo- 
rado Springs.  The  sides  are  precipitous,  and 
yet  they  are  hardly  those  "sheer  precipices" 
which  we  read  about  in  the  tales  of  the  trav- 
ellers. In  the  low  hills,  as  Mr.  Ruskin  tells 
us,  one  seldom  meets  with  a  wall  from  the  top 
of  which  a  plumb-line  will   swing  clear  for 


FOOT-HILLS  AND  ROCK  BASES 


71 


two  hundred  feet,  and  half  the  guide-book 
"abysses"  of  the  Alps  are  slides  of  rock,  or 
sloping  taluses,  or  at  best  abrupt  descents  of 
only  a  few  hundred  feet. 

In  the  high  mountains,  however,  in  places 
where  the  average  tourist  seldom  goes,  there 
are  sharp  declivities  and  veritable  precipices 
that  need  no  figures  to  make  them  awe-in- 
spiring. On  the  Matterhorn,  for  instance, 
there  are  several  places  along  the  shaft  where 
a  falling  stone  as  large  as  a  water-bucket  will 
disappear  from  view  without  striking  the  wall; 
and  in  many  places  in  the  Rockies  there  are 
look-overs  into  depths  that  must  reach  down 
several  thousand  feet — deep  enough  at  any 
rate  to  make  one  dizzy  even  though  lying  flat 
on  the  rock  and  peering  over  the  edge  only 
with  one's  nose  and  eyes.  Besides,  there  are 
waterfalls  like  the  Staubbach  that  actually 
do  fall  clear  for  nearly  a  thousand  feet,  and 
on  the  sides  of  Monte  Rosa,  in  the  Yosemite 
Valley,  and  elsewhere  there  are  others  of  even 
greater  sheer  descent. 

Perhaps  our  feeling  about  the  overwhelm- 
ing strength  of  the  exposed  rock  wall  is  helped 
out  by  its  acutely  broken  lines.  The  right 
angles  are  harsh,  savage,  even  at  times  violent, 


Matter- 
horn  prec- 
ipices. 


The  Staub- 
bach leap. 


Angle  lines 
of  the  rock 
wall. 


72 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Drawing  a 
face  wall. 


Suggestion 
of  strength. 


Heat,  frost, 
rain,  and 
tmnd. 


and  yet  stimulating,  elevating,  exhilarating. 
Seldom  do  you  see  on  the  face  wall  that  un- 
dulating line  of  beauty,  that  flowing  continuity, 
which  is  found  even^where  in  the  profiles  of 
the  low  hills.  The  broken  line  prevails — the 
line  that  runs  but  a  few  yards  or  feet,  perhaps, 
and  then  snaps  off  abruptly,  to  make  the  angle 
of  another  line.  WTien  one  tries  to  reproduce 
this  appearance  on  paper  with  pencil  or  brush 
he  meets  with  confusion.  The  lines  run  so  at 
random  and  break  without  sequence  that  pa- 
tience is  exhausted  before  the  scattered  pat- 
tern is  delineated.  Even  if  caught  the  result 
is  formless,  chaotic,  almost  meaningless.  But 
not  so  with  the  wall  itself  and  the  feeling 
it  produces  in  us.  It  is  a  part  of  the  great 
rim  and  has  continuity,  stability,  permanence. 
The  zigzags  and  breaks  of  the  face  are  in 
a  measure  indicative  of  its  strength  and  en- 
durance. They  suggest  that  the  terrestrial 
masonry  is  firmly  set  and  massively  braced 
against  destruction. 

And  yet  that  broken  surface  illustrates  and 
is  a  part  of  the  old,  old  story  of  destruction. 
Its  rock  strata  originally  were  flung  haphaz- 
ard there,  with  buckled  and  broken  arches, 
perhaps,  and  now  for  centuries  the  gnawing 


FOOT-HILLS  AND  ROCK  BASES 


73 


teeth  of  the  elements  have  been  at  work  upon 
them.  The  breaks  are  produced  by  erosion 
— by  frost  prying  outward  on  the  ledges,  by 
heat  expanding  and  cracking,  by  rain  wash- 
ings and  wind  wearings.  They  all  combine  to 
loosen  and  crumble  the  walls  of  slate  and 
granite,  and  one  by  one  the  fractured  blocks 
drop  down  the  face  wall.  The  accumulation 
of  fallen  debris  at  the  bottom  builds  up  into 
a  talus.  After  many  years,  perhaps,  the  talus 
reaches  high  up  on  the  wall  and  becomes  a 
huge  litter  of  broken  rock  that  turns  the  nat- 
ural right  angle  of  the  mountain's  foot  into  a 
concave  quarter-circle.  Behind  the  talus  we 
can  still  feel  the  straight,  descending  line  of 
the  cliff — can  still  feel  its  prodigious  strength 
and  grandeur. 

The  grandeur  and  indefinite  bulk  of  the  cliff 
or  precipice  are  often  greatly  promoted  by  its 
depth  and  spread  of  shadow.  We  seem  to 
associate  sheer  walls  with  shadow  if  not  with 
gloom.  The  sunshine  falls  upon  them,  to  be 
sure,  but  we  are  left  with  no  deep  memory  of 
it.  Unconsciously  we  think  of  the  upper  peaks 
as  being  sunlit,  but  the  precipice,  with  its 
"silent  tarn  below,"  is  matter  of  half-light  with 
its  accompanying  dampness  and  chill.     The 


Growing 
taluses. 


Cliff 
shadow. 


74 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Precipice 
gloom. 


Color  of 
the  walls. 


Wild  flow- 
ers in  the 
cracks. 


indefinite  in  the  shadow  produces  the  mys- 
terious. The  precipice  becomes  problematical 
and  the  imagination  builds  it  in  vaster  propor- 
tions, in  greater  heights,  in  deeper  depths,  in 
more  romantic  light,  in  more  poetic  color  than 
actually  exist.  Out  of  the  shadow  there  come, 
perhaps,  projecting  points  and  ledges  of  rock 
that  catch  the  sunlight  and  glitter  by  contrast, 
making  of  the  face  wall  a  wonderful  pattern 
of  light  and  dark.  And  perhaps,  again,  the 
wall  itself  is  stained  with  strange  local  hues 
and  saturated  with  indescribable  tints  and 
tones. 

But  color  is  usually  no  more  thought  of  in 
connection  with  the  w^alls  of  a  precipice  than 
is  sunlight.  We  see  where  the  drip  of  water 
makes  streaks  as  black  as  ink  or  stains  the 
wall  in  spots  an  orange-red  with  iron-rust;  we 
notice  the  spread  of  lichens  on  the  wall  in 
large  patches  of  gray,  of  yellow,  of  blue-black; 
and,  still  again,  perhaps  we  recognize  beds  of 
moss  clinging  along  the  ledges,  wild  flowers 
growing  in  the  crannies,  or  even  bushes  or 
stunted  cedars  and  piiions  rooted  in  the  cracks 
of  the  rock.  But  such  color  is  usually  patchy 
or  at  least  not  wide-spread. 

It  is,  however,  often  very  beautiful  color 


FOOT-HILLS  AND  ROCK  BASES 


75 


considered  merely  as  an  isolated  patch.  The 
rock  flowers  that  grow  in  the  ledges  and  hold 
fast  with  the  mosses  and  thin  grasses  have  a 
peculiar  beauty  of  their  own.  They  grow  in 
the  shadow,  the  winds  toss  them,  the  rains 
dash  them,  all  the  elements  seem  against  them. 

"  But  patiently,  slowly, 
The  pale  and  the  lowly 
Wring  color  and  form  from  the  stone." 

It  is  hectic  color — that  fine  tint  of  delicacy 
that  comes  to  plants  that  starve — and  the 
form  is,  again,  of  that  sinuous,  attenuated 
quality  that  goes  with  growths  that  are  torn 
or  worn  by  wind  and  water;  but  perhaps  that 
very  character  of  frailness  and  delicacy  makes 
for  beauty.  By  contrast  with  the  rugged  walls, 
the  dark  shadow,  the  drip  of  black  ooze,  the 
mystery  of  gloom,  what  lovely  spots  of  light 
and  color  they  seem!  And,  in  spite  of  their 
pallor  and  their  attenuated  forms,  how  tena- 
cious they  are  !  Wherever  there  is  a  platform 
or  shoulder  or  crevice  in  the  rocks  there  they 
put  forth  a  stem  and  blow  a  flower.  They 
grow  in  beds  along  the  ledges  and  gain  a  lit- 
tle, perhaps,  each  year.  For  ages  and  ages 
they  live  on,  holding  their  numbers,  keeping 


Color  of  the 
flowers. 


Tenacity 
of  the 
growths. 


Endurance 
of  slight 
things. 


76 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Different- 
colored 
rock  strata. 


their  place,  while  boulders  are  falling  away 
from  the  face  wall  and  mountain  tops  are 
crumbling.  Is  this  a  survival  through  fitness  ? 
Or  should  the  lesson  read: 

"  Not  always  the  strongest 
Endure  and  last  longest, 

Not  alwa^'s  the  fairest  that  fade. 
The  peaks  and  the  towers 
\Year  down,  but  the  flowers 

Still  bloom  in  the  precipice  shade." 

A  larger  coloring  comes  to  the  face  wall 
when  it  is  made  up  of  different-colored  rock 
strata.  Frequently,  in  Colorado  or  Arizona 
or  New  Mexico,  the  entire  mountain,  precipice 
included,  is  of  a  red  or  terra-cotta  hue  from 
the  oxidation  of  iron  and  copper.  These  color- 
ings of  orange,  dull  yellow,  rose-red,  silver- 
gray  are  things  we  often  look  at  but  do  not 
see  at  all;  and  yet  they  are  there.  They  are 
constant  qualities  of  all  mountam  walls  in  arid 
regions.  The  table  mountains,  red  bluffs,  and 
abrupt  escarpments  of  New  Mexico  and  Ari- 
zona are  remarkable  for  their  layers  of  red, 
terra-cotta,  and  gray  placed  one  upon  another 
and  all  blended  by  a  summer  heat  wherein 
the  very  air  seems  lilac-hued  or  opalescent. 
Similar  hues  are  very  apparent  in  the  Colo- 


A'eif  Mexi- 
can escarp- 


FOOT-HILLS  AND   ROCK  BASES 


77 


rado  Canyon,  while  over  in  Algiers  the  English 
novelists  gather  them  for  "local  color"  and 
produce  splashy  effects  with  them  that  make 
the  groundlings  wonder.  Of  course,  in  much 
less  degree,  companion  colors  are  spread  upon 
the  sharp  walls  of  the  Brevent  or  the  huge 
bases  of  the  Schwarze  Monch.  The  moun- 
tain walls  of  the  Alps  put  forth  no  blaze  of 
splendor — no  poppy-field  effect — ^but  it  is  some- 
thing of  a  mistake  to  think  them  merely  a 
black  or  gray  monotony. 

Many  of  the  precipices  begin  and  end  with 
a  declivity,  there  being  nothing  above  them 
but  a  bald  top  and  a  sloping  back;  but  others 
support  peaks  and  domes  of  snow  that  lift 
far  above  the  base  and  sparkle  in  the  sunlight. 
The  Schwarze  Monch,  of  which  mention  has 
just  been  made,  is  the  foundation  wall  upon 
which  rises  the  Jungfrau.  And  from  what 
enormous  rock  supports  lift  the  Eiger  and  the 
Wetterhorn!  Their  ragged  edges  and  steep 
declivities  remind  us  again  that  they  have  not 
been  geologically  long  upon  the  face  of  the 
earth.  When  they  are  many  centuries  older 
the  tall  peaks  will  have  crumbled  into  round 
domes,  the  sharp  ridges  will  have  melted  into 
smooth  saddles,  the  precipices  will  have  become 


Colors  of 

Alpine 

walls. 


The 

Schwarze 

Monch. 


The  Eiger 
and  Wet- 
terhorn. 


78 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


sloping  descents  through  the  growth  of  their 
own  taluses;  grass  and  timber  will,  perhaps, 
cover  the  once  barren  rock. 

Even  in  its  youth  the  precipice  and  rock 
base  are  subject  to  sudden  changes  through 
earthquake-shock  and  the  splitting  or  break- 
ing of  strata.  Again,  where  a  mountain  range 
stands  with  its  feet  in  the  sea  the  face  wall  is 
almost  always  gnawed  into  scoops  and  hollows, 
and  along  the  fissures  of  the  rock  strata  the 
waves  rush  in  and  out  wearing  and  washing 
long  galleries  into  the  heart  of  the  mountain. 
These  are  the  beginnings  oftentimes  of  the  fa- 
mous ocean  caves  where  seals  breed  and  mer- 
maids play  in  the  blue-green  water,  and  the 
shipwrecked  Don  Juan  clings  to  a  scrap  of 
rock  and  gradually  wins  his  way  back  to  life 
and  love. 

Similar  results  in  rock-hollowing  are  some- 
times obtained  in  the  precipices  back  from 
the  sea  by  wind  and  rain  wearing  in  rock- 
fissures.  The  desert  mountains  high  up  on 
the  walls  are  often  honeycombed  with  caves. 
But  they  have  no  great  interest  for  the  ex- 
plorer of  them.  The  interior  of  the  mountain 
is  not  so  romantic  as  the  fairy-tale  would 
make  out.    According  to  the  tale  the  hero  slips 


FOOT-HILLS   AND    ROCK   BASES 


79 


and  is  about  to  fall  over  the  precipice,  but 
saves  himself  by  grasping  a  near-by  bush. 
The  bush  tears  loose  just  enough  to  reveal  a 
stone  step  but  not  enough  to  let  the  hero  fall 
over  the  edge.  Of  course,  he  explores  the 
steps,  finds  a  stairway  leading  into  a  great 
cave  glittering  with  diamonds,  rescues  the 
captive  princess,  and,  after  many  startling  ad- 
ventures in  the  depths  of  sapphire  corridors  and 
diamond  halls,  escapes  to  the  open  air  again. 
But  the  cave  of  reality  is  a  trifle  more  pro- 
saic. It  is  dark,  not  to  say  black,  the  air  is 
usually  suffocating,  water  drips  from  the  rocks 
down  one's  neck,  and  the  greater  part  of  the 
locomotion  is  done  on  one's  hands  and  knees. 
It  is  not  quite  so  comfortable  as  a  gallery  in 
a  copper-mine.  Nor  is  it  so  interesting.  Prob- 
ably for  these  reasons  it  has  not  been  tenanted 
since  the  days  of  the  Stone-Age  man.  To-day 
not  even  a  holiday  party  can  be  induced  to 
tarry  long  in  it.  As  a  part  of  mountain  beauty 
the  cave  need  not  be  reckoned  with  just  here. 
It  is  a  defect — a  blow-hole  in  the  plate — rather 
than  a  depth  of  splendor.  The  beauty  of  the 
mountain  lies  on  the  outside. 


The  cave  of 
fiction. 


The  cave  of 
reality. 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  TIMBER-LINE 


Character 

of 

mountain 

ranges. 


Effect  of 
rain  on 
growths. 


The  character  or  general  look  of  a  moun- 
tain chain  may  be  produced  by  height,  by  the 
almost  abrupt  break  of  the  axial  range  against 
the  sky,  by  the  peculiarity  of  peaks.  The 
chain  may  be  young  and  full  of  precipices  or 
old  and  full  of  taluses;  it  may  be  snow-clad 
or  bare-peaked  or  flanked  by  foot-hills;  and, 
again,  any  one  of  these  features  would  lend 
a  determining  character  to  the  range.  But, 
aside  from  the  nature  of  the  original  upheaval, 
the  external  appearance  of  mountains  is  prob- 
ably more  influenced  by  timber  than  anything 
else.  Rainfall — its  presence  or  its  absence — 
may  make  or  unmake  the  look  of  the  whole 
range. 

For  rain  and,  what  is  in  effect  the  same  thing, 
snow  on  a  mountainside  not  only  tear  down 
and  drag  into  the  valley;  they  also  build  up 
barriers  that  check  their  own  ravages.  Rain 
produces  the  grasses  and  the  mosses  that  cover 
the  slopes  and  stop  the  wash  of  gravel  and  soil. 
It  also  grows  the  bushes  and  the  forests  that 
80 


THE  TIMBER-LINE 


81 


spread  along  mountain  sides  and  hold  back 
landslips.  It  further  produces  color,  and  this 
in  itself  is  so  distinctive  a  quality  that  often 
a  range  takes  its  name  therefrom,  as,  for  in- 
stance, the  Green  Mountains.  Color  is,  of 
course,  not  the  effect  of  timber  solely.  The 
Blue  Ridge,  the  Black  Hills,  the  Topaz  Moun- 
tains take  their  names  as  the  result  of  other 
effects.  The  blueness  of  ridges  seen  in  far 
views  is  caused  by  the  banked  and  accumu- 
lated atmosphere  lying  between  us  and  the 
ridges: 

"'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue." 

But  it  would  not  be  so  azure  were  it  not  for 
the  green  background  of  the  forests.  The 
"purple  peak"  of  twilight  is  almost  always  a 
timbered  peak.  The  desert  mountains  which 
have  no  forests  have  an  opalescent  atmos- 
phere, and  the  peaks  are  not  purple  at  twi- 
light but  often  salmon-colored,  rose-hued — 
even  glowing  red. 

The  southern  ranges  of  the  Rockies  traverse 
an  arid  region  and  the  timber  growth  is  not 
thick  or  heavy.    In  places  in  the  lower  spurs 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


there  is  only  underbrush  or  chaparral.  Far- 
ther to  the  north,  as  the  rainfall  is  increased 
the  timber  also  is  increased;  but  even  as  high 
up  as  the  Canadian  Rockies,  beyond  Banff, 
the  growth  is  small  (though  thick)  upon  the 
eastern  slopes.  On  the  contrary,  when  one 
goes  over  the  divide  toward  the  Pacific,  pass- 
ing through  the  Selkirks  and  entering  a  warm, 
damp  belt,  he  meets  with  the  huge  firs  of  the 
Cascade  Mountains  and  the  tall,  close-stand- 
ing spruces,  cedars,  and  pines  of  the  Coast 
Range.  Farther  to  the  northwest,  with  in- 
creasing rain,  'the  timber  grows  still  denser. 
In  Alaska  it  not  only  wraps  the  mountain  tops 
but  extends  down  the  sides  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  sea  in  a  mantle  of  dark  green.  That 
mantle  is  practically  impenetrable.  The  un- 
dergroT\i:hs  combined  with  fallen  timber  make 
an  axe  necessary  at  almost  every  step.  Even  the 
streams  that  come  down  the  mountain  sides 
seem  cut  out  of  the  timber  rather  than  out  of 
the  rock.  They  flash  here  and  there  in  spots, 
but  frequently  disappear  and  run  under  the 
great  blanket  of  moss  and  decayed  vegetation. 
The  Alps  grow  no  such  timber  as  that  upon 
the  Pacific  slope,  because  they  have  no  such 
warm  climate,  but  the  heavy  rainfall  of  Switzer- 


THE  TIMBER-LINE 


83 


land  brings  forth  somewhat  similar  if  smaller 
forests  almost  everywhere.  Possibly  much  of 
the  present  timber  is  of  very  recent  growth,  for 
it  is  not  large;  but  it,  nevertheless,  covers  the 
mountain  sides  and  gives  the  distinctive  blue- 
green  coloring  of  the  Alps.  The  characteristic 
look  of  Switzerland  if  reduced  to  a  flat  panel 
of  color  would  be  the  green  of  timber  below, 
the  white  of  snow  above,  and  the  blue  of  the 
sky  over  all. 

The  colder  the  climate  the  scantier  and  the 
hardier  the  timber  growth.  Such  mammoth 
trees  as  the  redwoods  of  California  will  not 
grow  up  in  the  snow-line;  and,  while  the  Port 
Orford  cedars  stand  thick  on  the  lower  slopes 
of  the  western  mountains  of  Oregon,  they  do 
not  thrive  beyond,  say,  five  thousand  feet. 
It  is  the  chill  in  the  air  that  is  responsible  for 
the  small,  telegraph-pole  larches  of  the  Alps 
and  the  thin,  schooner-mast  pines  of  Norway. 
One  need  not  fly  from  country  to  country  to 
find  illustration  for  so  obvious  a  fact;  one 
need  only  ascend  the  mountain  itself — ]\Iount 
Rainier,  for  example — to  see  the  timber  dwin- 
dling in  size  and  becoming  more  shaggy  in 
bark  and  limbs  as  it  nears  the  snow-line. 

Inevitably  the  scantiness  or   plenitude  of 


Effect  of 
cold  on 
timber. 


Stunted 
growths. 


84 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Timber  de- 
termining 
mountain 
character. 


Peculiar 
features  of 
mountain 
timber. 


Oregon  and 
Washing- 
ton timber. 


timber  produces  a  distinct  mountain  character 
which  the  eye  quickly  recognizes.  And  each 
growth  within  itself  develops  a  distinct  char- 
acter of  its  own.  The  larches  and  spruces  of 
the  Alps,  fighting  cold,  wet,  and  tempest, 
clinging  fast  against  water-wash  and  landslip, 
wTinging  existence  from  the  thin,  rocky  soil, 
put  forth  abnormal  features.  The  larches 
not  only  have  thick  barks  but  they  secrete 
resins  that  keep  heat  in  and  cold  out.  They 
send  out  roots  in  every  direction  like  the 
arms  of  an  octopus,  not  only  to  pick  up  food 
and  moisture,  but  to  hold  fast  in  the  cracks 
of  boulders  and  rock  strata  so  the  tree  shall 
not  be  torn  out  by  either  tempest  or  land- 
slip. The  trunks,  forced  to  grow  out  from  the 
steep  mountain  side,  bend  and  spring  straight 
upward  to  the  sun  directly  they  emerge  from 
the  soil.  And  as  though  to  forefend  against 
wind  they  grow  comparatively  few  branches. 
Again,  they  do  not  grow  close  together.  Each 
tree  is  quite  by  itself  and  often  there  is  open 
space  about  it  for  air  and  light. 

Perhaps  cultivation — the  interference  of  man 
— has  had  something  to  do  with  the  present  con- 
dition of  the  Swiss  timber,  for  it  is  a  different 
story  from  the  untouched  tangle  of  trees  and 


THE  TIMBER-LINE 


vines  and  underbrush  that  covers  the  western 
mountains  in  Oregon  and  Washington.  There 
the  trees  stand  so  close  together  that  they 
shut  out  the  Hght  of  the  sun  and  the  under- 
growth is  often  so  dense  that  only  a  bear  can 
break  through  it.  As  you  look  at  one  of  these 
mountain  sides  from  across  a  valley,  so  thick 
are  the  trees  that  the  tops  are  hardly  to  be 
distinguished.  They  melt  into  a  broom-like 
fringe  of  green — a  bunched  mass.  The  larches 
of  the  Alps,  however,  when  seen  across  a 
valley,  may  be  counted  and  checked  off,  each 
one  with  its  arrow-head  pointing  upward  at 
the  sky.  These  tops  even  make  a  pattern 
that  looks  like  a  stretch  of  green  tapestry,  so 
regular  and  recurrent  is  the  arrow-head  design. 
Amost  all  of  the  Alpine  slopes  are  thin  in  their 
timbering.  You  can,  in  spots,  look  through 
the  trees  to  the  moss  and  rocks  beneath.  And 
on  almost  every  steep  slope  there  are  the 
bare  troughs  of  descending  slips  and  avalanches 
that  have  ploughed  through  the  little  forests 
as  though  they  were  mere  corn-fields. 

This  Alpine  slope  is  a  delightful  mountain 
side  for  the  Alpine  climber  and  his  guides 
who  are  making  an  ascent.  The  timber  does 
not  worry  them  in  the  least.     The  chestnuts. 


86 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


walnuts,  oaks,  beeches  that  low  down  min- 
gle with  the  conifers  make  a  welcome  shade; 
the  spruces  and  pines  are  as  picturesque  as 
though  they  belonged  in  Benozzo's  fresco  in 
the  Riccardi  palace;  and  the  larches  are  clean- 
stemmed,  straight,  and  aspiring.  Underfoot 
the  grasses  and  the  mosses  grow  thick,  with 
occasionally  some  flower  of  the  forest  lifting 
its  pretty  head  from  beneath  an  enormous 
boulder;  the  lichens  cling  to  every  rock  and 
tree  trunk;  and  the  beds  of  ferns,  scattered 
here  and  there,  offer  no  impediment  to  travel. 
In  fact,  mountain-climbing  through  the  timber 
of  the  Alps  is  somewhat  like  a  walk  in  a  park, 
so  open  are  the  groves  and  so  even  the  ascent. 
But,  again,  for  contrast,  the  pushing  upward 
through  the  timber  of  Oregon  or  Washington 
or  British  Columbia  is  quite  another  affair. 
The  trees  stand  thick,  the  underbrush  is  dense, 
the  ground  itself  is  uncertain  and  treacherous. 
At  the  foot  of  slopes  where  surface  water  set- 
tles there  is  usually  a  thick  black  ooze  into 
which  one  may  sink  to  his  waist;  in  other 
places  there  are  some  miles,  perhaps,  of  dead 
and  fallen  timber,  blown  down  by  hurricanes 
or  half  burned  down  by  fires.  These  "wind- 
falls"   and    "burns'*    are    sometimes    criss- 


THE   TIMBER-LINE 


87 


crossed  by  three  or  four  layers  of  fallen  trees 
until  they  begin  to  look  like  an  enormous 
bear-trap.  It  is  impossible  to  get  through  them 
with  a  horse,  and  the  traveller  on  foot  may  pro- 
ceed only  by  walking  along  the  fallen  trunks 
high  in  air.  Ancient  windfalls  where  the  tim- 
ber is,  perhaps,  embedded  in  the  ground  and 
overgrown  with  moss  are  quite  as  difficult  to 
get  over,  for  now  one  keeps  sinking  through 
the  trunks  that  yield  to  the  foot  like  so  much 
ashes.  To  step  on  a  giant  fir  that  has  been 
mouldering  undisturbed  for  several  centuries 
is  often  to  go  down  into  it  up  to  one's  neck. 

Nor  is  the  travelling  smoother  in  other 
places.  Great  ferns  and  a  huge  thorny  weed 
called  "devil's  club"  reach  up  to  one's  head, 
bushes  of  yellow  and  red  salmon-berry,  black- 
berry, raspberry,  thimbleberry  tear  at  one's 
clothes,  wild  grape  and  poison-oak  tangle  about 
one's  feet.  By  way  of  compensation  and  dis- 
traction one  sees  overhead,  say  fifteen  feet  in 
height,  vast  canopies  of  rhododendrons  bearing 
clusters  of  flowers  a  foot  or  more  in  length, 
and  far  above  these  the  spreading  foliage  of 
innumerable  pines,  firs,  and  incense  cedars. 

The  stand  of  this  giant  timber  (some  of 
the  firs  and  spruces  are  six  and  eight  feet  in 


Decayed 
firs  and 
pines. 


Difficulties 
of  travel. 


88 


THE   MOUNTAIN 


diameter  and  perhaps  three  hundred  feet  in 
height)  is  astonishing.  It  is  the  forest  prime- 
val, hoary  with  long  beardings  of  caribou  moss 
— the  original  forest  produced  by  nature  at 
her  leisure  and  in  her  own  way,  uninfluenced 
by  man.  The  magnificent  prodigality  of  the 
gro\vi:h  has  no  equal  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 
It  would  seem  in  places  impossible  to  put  in 
another  tree,  so  thickly  do  they  grow,  and  yet 
the  young  trees  are  springing  up  ever^^'here. 
The  beauty  of  the  individual  trees  is  matter 
of  common  observation.  The  straight  stems 
lift  and  taper  so  magnificently,  spread  branches 
so  picturesquely,  group  tops  against  the  sky 
so  wonderfully,  that  the  dullest  of  tourists 
would  exclaim  over  them.  Even  the  giant  fir 
with  bark  stripped  off,  that  has  been  standing 
dead  for  years,  has  a  rhythmical  rope-twist 
in  the  trunk  that  reminds  one  of  a  baroque 
Italian  column  and  a  silver  color  that  is  a  mar- 
vel of  delicacy. 

But  the  most  magnificent  of  all  the  giant 
trees,  in  its  columned  trunk,  red  bark,  and 
light-green  foliage,  is  the  sequoia,  or  redwood. 
It  does  not  belong  high  up  in  the  mountains, 
but  flourishes  low  down  in  the  California 
parks,  and  yet  is  more  or  less  of  a  mountain 


THE  TIMBER-LINE 


tree.  Its  height  is  often  over  three  hundred 
feet  and  its  diameter  over  thirty  feet.  The 
bark  alone  is  two  feet  thick  and  the  rings  of  the 
largest  specimens  make  them  out  some  four 
thousand  years  old.  You  cannot  see  the  tree 
sway  with  the  wind,  and  it  makes  no  moaning 
as  does  the  pine.  The  young  ones  have  pointed 
tops,  but  the  older  ones  are  ball-topped  or 
ragged  and  scarred  by  lightning.  These  huge 
tops  are  vivid  green  and  reflect  splendidly  the 
first  light  of  the  rising  sun,  the  last  of  the  set- 
ting sun.  Next  in  height  to  the  sequoias  are 
the  Douglas  spruces,  the  sugar-pines  and  yel- 
low pines — all  of  them  superb  growths  with 
tapering  stems  straight  as  arrows  and  with 
arrow-headed  tops. 

In  its  initial  stage  the  tendency  of  all  this 
mountain  timber  is  to  spindle  upward  toward 
the  zenith,  to  throw  the  foliage  into  the  top, 
and  to  let  the  trunk  go  bare  of  limbs.  The 
young  conifers  (lodge-pole  pines  and  moun- 
tain hemlocks  especially)  with  bare  stems  and 
bunched  tops  are  very  tall  for  their  bulk  and 
sway  much.  Even  when  there  is  little  move- 
ment of  air  they  sway  majestically  and  slowly, 
and  bow  significantly  to  one  another  in  the 
gravest  manner.     In  a  wind  they  rock  a  great 


90 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


deal  from  the  ground  up.  When  older  grown 
they  bulk  heavy  m  the  trunk,  become  stiffer, 
and  stand  stiller.  In  time  all  the  conifers — 
pines,  spruces,  firs — become  massed  and  packed 
in  enormous  areas  and  spread  over  hundreds 
of  miles.  Into  these  great  woods  the  sunlight 
comes  only  in  broken  flickers,  the  rain  does 
not  drive  but  drips  through  the  covering 
boughs,  and  the  winds  creep  down  only  in  gen- 
tle puffs  of  cool  air.  Tremendously  impress- 
ive are  these  huge  forests  with  their  shadows 
and  their  stillness — too  much  so  for  the  aver- 
age traveller,  who  usually  prefers  the  open, 
sunlit  places. 

And  open  places  do  occur  even  in  the  Ore- 
gon and  Washington  woods.  There  are  spots 
where  the  sunlight  falls  free  and  a  varied 
vegetation  springs  up.  Occasionally  a  stream 
comes  do\\Ti  a  mountain  side,  splashing  around 
huge  boulders  and  tumbling  over  shelving 
rocks  into  pools  where  rainbow  trout  lie  hid- 
den. Along  the  banks  of  the  stream,  growing 
out  of  the  very  rocks,  as  it  were,  are  willows, 
poplars,  birches,  live-oaks,  chinquapins,  ma- 
dronas.  Among  them  are  white  tangles  of 
shadbush  and  syringa,  mauve-colored  rhodo- 
dendrons, with  many  varieties  of  laurel  and 


THE  TIMBER-LINE 


91 


azalea.  They  seem  to  gather  thickly  by  the 
edge  of  the  stream,  but  whether  to  supply  in- 
sects for  the  trout  or  misery  for  the  fly-casting 
fisherman  is  not  very  apparent.  They  seem 
quite  unconscious  of  either  fish  or  fisherman, 
blossoming  there  in  the  open  spots  of  the 
wilderness  as  they  have  done  for  many  years, 
alone  and  undisturbed. 

The  forest  is  usually  not  the  place  for  flowers. 
There  is  too  much  shadow  with  its  consequent 
damp  and  cold.  The  long  lists  of  Alpine  flora 
that  we  find  in  the  journals  of  Swiss  tourists 
are  made  up  from  the  meadows  and  the  up- 
lands rather  than  the  woods.  The  heavy  tim- 
ber region  is  practically  flowerless.  But  this 
is  not  true  of  the  forests  of  Oregon  and  Wash- 
ington. Nature  there  is  so  productive  through 
warmth  and  moisture  that  she  will  grow  sta- 
mens and  petals  even  in  spots  where  the  cir- 
cumstances are  not  altogether  favorable.  The 
wild  rose,  that  dearly  loves  the  hedgerow  in 
the  open,  will  often  cast  a  profusion  of  pink 
petals  against  the  red  bark  of  an  incense  cedar, 
and  the  large,  purple  flowers  of  the  clematis 
sometimes  cling  about  the  sides  of  a  giant  fir 
in  a  wild  blare  of  color.  What  they  do  there, 
how  they  came  there,  no  one  can  more  than 


Flowers  of 
the  forest. 


Clematis 
and  roses. 


92 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Orchids  in 
the  Siski- 
you woods. 


Small 
flowers. 


The  weep- 
ing spruce. 


guess.  Nature's  ways  are  always  a  little  mys- 
terious. Why  should  she  put  sunflowers  in 
the  forest — out  of  the  sun  where  they  nat- 
urally belong?  Yet  they  are  to  be  found  in 
abundance  in  the  Siskiyou  woods,  with  tiger- 
lilies,  paint-brushes,  red  and  yellow  columbines, 
lupins,  and  many  varieties  of  orchids — all  of 
them  apparently  hardy,  productive,  resplen- 
dent, and  yet  all  of  them  quite  out  of  place. 

If  one  looks  among  the  grasses  and  mosses 
for  the  low-growing  flowers  the  variety  is 
increased.  Anemones,  spring  beauties,  trili- 
ums,  baby  blue-eyes,  forget-me-nots,  violets 
are  massed  in  beds  and  scattered  at  random 
through  the  forest.  It  seems  as  though  any- 
thing would  grow  in  that  wonderful  soil,  in 
that  wonderful  climate.  Even  the  weeping 
spruce — the  rarest  of  all  trees — is  found  there, 
and  there  only.  Every  inch  of  the  ground 
sends  forth  something  rare  and  strange.  Some- 
times in  crossing  a  dense  windfall,  following 
along  a  tree  trail  perhaps  fifteen  feet  in  air, 
one  may  see  the  ground  beneath  him  thickly 
strewn  with  little  drooping,  bell-shaped  flowers 
lifting  no  higher  than  the  awns  of  the  moss, 
or  again  great  patches  of  star-shaped  clusters 
making  a  yellow  carpet  of  fairy  beauty.    Again, 


THE  TIMBER-LINE 


93 


what  do  they  there  in  the  wilderness  ?  If  na- 
ture made  the  beauty  of  the  earth  for  man 
alone,  why  were  these  fair  creations  born  to 
blush  unseen  ?  Is  it,  perhaps,  possible  that  she 
grew  the  flowers  in  this  primeval  forest  that 
their  beauty  might  not  be  seen  by  man — might 
not  be  trampled  upon  and  turned  into  ashes? 
The  edelweiss  once  grew  everjnvhere  on  Alpme 
slopes,  but  now  you  will  find  it  only  in  the 
most  inaccessible  spots.  Have  the  flowers  the 
same  instinct  of  self-preservation  as  the  birds 
and  the  animals,  or  is  it  only  the  remainder, 
the  portion  that  has  escaped  destruction,  that 
we  now  find  in  the  remote  corners  of  the 
earth? 

The  birds  usually  use  the  woods  as  a  place 
of  refuge.  In  times  of  storm  or  summer  heat 
many  varieties  in  pairs  and  flocks  may  be 
found  hiding  in  the  cover,  but,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  woodpeckers,  the  nuthatches, 
and  the  jays,  there  are  few  that  breed  or  live 
in  the  woods.  In  the  spring  of  the  year  the 
European  birds  are  to  be  found  on  the  plains 
of  Lombardy  or  the  fields  of  France  or  Ba- 
varia— anywhere  on  the  flat  lands  about  the 
Alps  rather  than  in  the  high  forests  of  the 
Alps  themselves.    In  the  lower  timber  there  is 


94 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Peculiari- 
ties of 
forest  birds. 


Warblers 
and  fly- 
catchers. 


Pacific- 
slope  birds. 


Jays  and 
woodpeck- 
ers. 


some  bird  life,  but  even  there  it  is  abnormal 
or  peculiar.  That  is  to  say,  the  birds  are  often 
small,  drab-colored,  wag-tailed,  ill-balanced, 
but  very  agile,  very  swift  in  movement.  They 
bear  some  odd  resemblance  to  deep-sea  fishes 
that  live  in  darkness.  The  majority  of  them 
are  insect-catchers,  finding  food  under  the  bark 
of  trees  or  in  decayed  spots  of  the  trunks. 
It  is  astonishing  at  what  distance  they  can  see 
a  minute  fly  and  how  accurately  they  can  dash 
at  it  and  snap  it  up.  Some  of  them  are  ab- 
normal in  voice,  having  a  note  much  too  loud 
and  deep  for  their  size.  Many  of  these  war- 
blers— chits,  WTcns,  vireos- — build  nests  in  the 
holes  of  trees  or  cracks  of  rocks  and  keep 
dashing  in  and  out  like  mice  from  a  hole  in 
the  floor. 

In  the  Pacific-slope  woodlands  there  are  a 
few  more  birds  than  in  the  Alps — a  crow,  a 
purple  jay,  a  large  black  woodpecker,  a  black 
grouse,  a  mountain-quail,  some  bluebirds,  fly- 
catchers, rock-wrens,  and  snowbirds,  with  a 
water-ousel  that  bobs  up  and  down  from  a 
rock  in  the  stream.  None  of  them  sings  or 
gives  forth  a  joyous  note.  The  jay  jangles  and 
squawks,  limb  by  limb,  from  the  bottom  of  a 
pine-tree  to  its  top,  then  flies  to  the  next  tree 


THE  TIMBER-LINE 


95 


and  repeats  the  performance;  but  he  does  not 
sing.  And  the  woodpecker  pounds  holes  in 
the  trees  and  then  pounds  acorns  into  the 
holes;  but  he  does  not  sing.  The  calling  note 
of  the  quail  or  the  grouse  and  the  whistle  of 
the  bluebird  are  sporadic  utterances  only,  and 
the  note  of  the  water-ousel  is  rarely  heard  for 
the  roarmg  of  the  water.  Farther  south,  in 
the  California  mountains,  where  the  timber  is 
thinner  and  there  are  many  open  parks,  there 
is  a  corresponding  increase  in  bird  life,  but 
the  dense  forests  are  usually  songless. 

There  are  animals  in  the  deep  woods,  too; 
but,  again,  they  seldom  make  any  cry.  They 
seem  living  there  for  protection — living  there 
because  there  is  no  living  elsewhere.  Time 
was  when  bear  and  deer  were  frequently  seen 
in  the  Engadine  valley,  but  they  have  passed 
out  and  become  merely  a  tradition.  The 
chamois  and  the  marmot  still  exist,  but  not 
in  the  woods.  They  keep  to  the  barrens  and 
the  rocks,  and  from  their  shyness  are  evi- 
dently aware  of  their  danger.  It  is  only  a 
question  of  time  when  they  will  go.  Switzer- 
land is  too  well  known  and  supports  too  many 
hunters  with  magazine  rifles  for  animal  life  to 
thrive. 


Alpine 
animals. 


Chamois 
and  mar- 
mot. 


96 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Such  is  happily  not  yet  the  case  with  our 
own  mountains,  though  they  are  threatened. 
They  are  being  tramped  over  and  hunted  by 
bands  of  alleged  sportsmen,  but  they  still  have 
their  quota  of  game.  The  white-tailed  deer, 
or  the  mule-deer,  is  in  almost  every  Western 
range  between  Mexico  and  Canada.  The 
mule-deer  often  prefers  the  chaparral  to  the 
woods,  whereas  the  white-tail  likes  the  timber 
or  river  brush.  Each  seeks  the  cover  best 
suited  for  his  hiding,  but  eventually  the  hunter 
catches  him  napping  and  the  soft-nosed  bullet 
ploughs  into  him.  Year  by  year  their  re- 
spective numbers  decrease,  and  at  no  distant 
day  they  may  follow  the  buffalo  to  oblivion. 

The  same  fate  is  in  store  for  the  grizzly 
bear,  only  it  will  come  swifter  and  surer. 
Every  man's  hand  is  against  him.  Guns  and 
poisons  and  traps  are  always  confronting  him, 
and,  notTsdthstanding  his  enormous  strength 
and  courage,  he  is  doomed  to  extermination — 
is  even  now  almost  unknown.  He  knows  the 
white  man  is  on  his  trail,  and  to-day  he  skulks 
in  the  densest  chaparral  of  the  Coast  Range, 
where  neither  dog  nor  man  can  follow  him  with 
safety.  \Mien  brought  to  bay  and  wounded 
he  is  probably  the  most  dangerous  of  all  big 


THE  TIMBER-LINE 


97 


game.  A  blow  of  his  paw  will  crush  the  skull 
of  a  man  like  an  egg-shell,  and  he  can  snap 
the  neck  of  an  ox  instantly  with  a  single 
muzzle  twist  of  that  same  paw.  Fortunately 
he  is  not  often  met  with.  The  chaparral  is 
hardly  good  hunting-ground,  and  no  sports- 
man, unless  unnecessarily  ignorant,  is  likely  to 
invade  it.  The  thick,  dry  brush  catches  and 
holds  the  man  as  the  web  the  fly,  but  the  griz- 
zly with  his  enormous  weight  smashes  through 
it  as  though  it  were  so  much  standing  corn. 
That  weight  is  variously  estimated  at  from  a 
thousand  to  fifteen  hundred  pounds.  And  yet 
there  is  no  want  of  swiftness,  agility,  or  endur- 
ance about  the  beast.  He  will  stand  shoot- 
ing through  the  heart  and  not  collapse  until 
some  minutes  after  he  has  torn  the  enemy 
into  ribbons.  Decidedly  he  is  an  animal  to  be 
let  alone. 

It  is  persistently  asserted  by  Pacific-coast 
naturalists  that  the  real  grizzly  lives  (or  did 
live)  only  in  the  Coast  Range,  and  that  the 
Rocky  Mountain  grizzly  is  another  species 
quite  different  in  weight,  color,  and  habits. 
It  is  denied  that  the  silvertip  is  a  grizzly. 
The  silvertip  is  close  of  kin  to  the  big  brute 
that  has  become  so  tame  in  the  Yellowstone 


Strength  of 
the  grizzly. 


His 
endurance. 


The  Rocky 
Mountain 
silvertip. 


98 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Alaskan 
bears. 


Other  ani' 
mals  in 
tcestern 
mountains. 


Stillness 
of  the  big 
woods. 


National  Park  that  he  eats  from  the  garbage 
heaps  in  the  rear  of  the  tourist  hotels.  Nor 
are  the  Alaskan  bears — huge  as  they  are — true 
grizzlies  in  the  Californian  meaning  of  the 
term.  The  typical  old  Ephraim  belongs  in 
the  chaparral  of  the  San  Bernardino  moun- 
tains or  elsewhere  in  the  neighboring  ranges. 
But  his  numbers  are  very  few  to-day,  and  the 
day  of  his  departure  is  near  if  not  already  ar- 
rived. 

Everything  gives  way  before  the  coming  of 
the  white  man.  Beasts  and  birds,  with  trees, 
bushes,  and  flowers,  all  disappear  before  him. 
He  is  the  great  destroyer.  There  are  to-day 
in  the  western  mountains  bears,  wolves,  cou- 
gars, lynxes,  wildcats,  deer,  porcupines,  coons, 
marmots,  mountain-beavers,  squirrels,  rock- 
rabbits,  but  none  of  them  will  last  for  long. 
Perhaps  they  will  not  be  greatly  missed,  for 
they  are  now  unseen  by  the  average  person  in 
the  forest.  They  keep  out  of  the  way  and  sel- 
dom give  out  a  cry. 

The  mountain  forest  is,  indeed,  a  place  of 
overwhelming  silences.  Even  a  storm  there  is 
something  that  goes  on  overhead  but  is  not 
felt  down  among  the  tree-trunks.  What  a 
stillness,  that  of  the  big  woods !     In  the  sum- 


THE  TIMBER-LINE 


99 


mer  there  is  sometimes  a  hum  from  the  great 
^olian  harp  of  the  pines  overhead,  or  in  the 
winter  the  cracking  of  a  frost-bound  branch 
or  the  almost  soundless  sifting  of  snow  from 
the  upper  branches — no  more.  The  jangle 
of  a  jay  or  the  dull  thump  from  the  bounding 
hoof  of  a  deer  is  but  a  momentary  affair. 
Usually  the  stillness  is  so  great  that  it  may  be 
felt,  the  silence  so  oppressive  that  it  may  be 
heard. 

And  at  night  with  the  silences  comes  the 
feeling  of  being  lost,  being  shut  in,  being  ut- 
terly helpless  until  the  coming  of  light  again. 
Alone  in  the  forest  at  night — a  camp-fire 
sending  flickering  flashes  up  the  red  trunks 
of  the  surrounding  cedars,  the  stars  seen 
only  in  occasional  points  of  light  through  the 
arabesque  of  boughs,  a  great  unknown  of 
darkness  all  about  you,  and  occasionally  out 
of  that  darkness  the  glittering  yellow  eye- 
balls of  some  beast  watching  you  from  behind 
a  fallen  spruce — is  picturesque,  undoubtedly, 
but  not  exactly  comfortable.  One  welcomes 
the  dawn.  The  first  touch  of  the  sun  that 
strikes  across  a  fire-burn  and  gilds  the  tops 
of  the  distant  firs  may  seem  more  beautiful 
than  anything  ever  seen  on  land  or  sea,  and 


Night  in 
the  forest. 


The 

oppressive 

silence. 


100 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Serenity  of 
nature. 


Nature 
building 
up  and 
tearing 


the  jangle  of  the  jay  may  sound  really  sweet 
after  a  night  with  the  forest  silences.  Even 
the  Great  Peace  may  at  times  prove  oppres- 
sive. 

And  yet  how  serene  nature  is  in  her  moun- 
tain stillness,  her  forest  hush !  How  aloof 
from  impatient  fret  stand  the  tall  firs,  the 
pines,  the  cedars !  The  snows  fall  and  melt 
and  pass  away,  the  streams  slip  down  from 
the  mountain  to  the  lake,  the  laurel  and  the 
columbine  nod  drowsily  along  the  banks,  the 
water-ousel  on  whirring  wing  goes  up  and 
down  the  brook.  How  utterly  indifferent 
they  are  to  eventhing  but  their  own  en- 
deavors ! 

Nature  works  not  by  time  but  by  circum- 
stance. A  millennium  is  as  a  day  to  her.  She 
builds  up  and  she  tears  down;  she  brings  to 
life  and  she  brings  to  death;  but  always  for 
a  use  and  for  a  purpose.  And  always  with 
beauty  as  a  result  of  the  work.  Even  in  the 
death  there  is  a  final  touch  of  beauty.  The 
white-trunked  and  ghost-like  pines  blasted  by 
fire  years  ago — even  the  dead  lodge-pole  pines 
still  standing  and  covering  the  lower  moun- 
tain-tops by  the  million — will  reflect  the  most 
beautiful  tones  of  rose  and  lavender  at  sunset. 


THE  TIMBER-LINE 


101 


Again,  all  the  foliage  is  at  its  most  brilliant 
pitch  just  before  it  falls.  And  the  monarchs 
of  the  forest,  when  they  themselves  succmnb, 
what  lovely  mosses  and  flowers  gather  upon 
the  decaying  trunks ! 

Death  is  a  part  of  the  plan,  in  the  forest 
as  elsewhere.  It  is  not  or  should  not  be  cause 
for  regret.  Hence,  perhaps,  the  feeling  of 
serenity,  of  mighty  repose,  of  supreme  and 
abiding  purpose  when  we  are  close  to  the 
great  elemental  forces.  The  fret  of  the  world 
seems  purely  human  and  artificial.  Nature 
in  her  larger  manifestations  is  above  and  be- 
yond it. 


Compen- 
sations. 


Death  a 
part  of  na- 
ture's plan. 


Above  the 
timber. 


Mountain 
meadows. 


Climbing 
on  the  bar- 
rens. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  UPLANDS 

Where  the  timber  ceases  to  grow  there  the 
uplands  begin.  By  uplands  I  mean  the  semi- 
barren  lands  lying  between  the  timber  and 
the  snow — ^the  mountain  sides  where  boulders 
are  thickly  strewn  and  small  streams  wander 
and  stunted  bushes  with  short  grass  and  hardy 
flowers  grow.  Occasionally  there  are  patches 
of  dirty  snow  in  the  deep-sunk  gullies  or  ra- 
vines, but  usually  the  uplands  are  pale  green 
with  short  herbage  or  pale  gray  with  scattered 
rock  taluses.  In  still  summer  days  the  tour- 
ist from  his  mountain  hotel  may  occasionally 
hear  the  faint  tinkle  of  cow-bells  coming  down 
to  him  from  those  upper  meadows — meadows 
that  are  so  far  up  he  cannot  see  the  cows  that 
wear  the  bells. 

And  here,  too,  with  the  ending  of  the  forest 
is  the  beginning  of  mountain-climbing.  In 
Switzerland,  as  already  suggested,  the  tramp 
up  through  the  timber  is  usually  a  leisurely 
matter,  with  many  stops  by  the  way.  If  near 
some  popular  resort  the  walks  are  duly  graded 
102 


THE   UPLANDS 


103 


and  seats  are  placed  at  opportune  eminences, 
where  one  may  rest  and  look  out  upon  a 
"  view."  But  the  canny  kunerein  can  rarely  be 
induced  to  build  pathways  up  into  the  snow- 
line. The  tourist  must  hire  a  guide  to  show 
him  where  to  walk,  unless  he  have  sufficient 
experience  and  can  pick  his  own  way  and  do 
his  own  climbing.  It  is  usually  not  difficult 
walking  on  the  barrens,  though  there  are  some- 
times precipices  to  be  skirted  and  landslips 
to  be  avoided,  but  as  one  ascends  the  air  be- 
comes thinner,  and  one  is  increasingly  likely 
to  find  himself  "fat  and  scant  of  breath." 

It  seems  that  in  order  to  gain  your  second 
wind  you  must  lose  your  first.  The  process 
of  breathing  freer  and  fuller,  which  is  called 
"getting  one's  second  wind,"  is  perhaps  simple 
enough  in  explanation.  It  takes  half  an  hour 
or  more  of  climbing  to  get  the  lungs  expanded 
to  their  full  capacity  and  the  heart  beating 
with  regularity.  When  this  is  attained  one 
is  in  good  walking  condition  and  moves  along 
without  labored  breathing  or  fatigue.  This 
is  needful,  for  sometimes  the  ascents  of  the 
uplands  make  stiff  climbing,  and  the  winds 
that  blow  up  there  are  not  zephyrs  from  Ar- 
cady.    Scrambling  up  the  warm  lee  side  of  a 


Difficulties 
of  the 
climb. 


Getting 

one's 

breath. 


104 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Cold 
winds. 


Air  of  the 
uplands. 


Nature 
exacting. 


Sunlight 
on  the 
mountain 
side. 


mountain  and  emerging  upon  the  crest  to  face 
an  icy  wind  is  exhilarating  but  also  somewhat 
dangerous  to  one  who  is  overheated  or  ex- 
hausted. 

But  what  an  air  it  is  that  blows  on  the  up- 
lands! It  seems  to  come  down  out  of  upper 
space,  so  keen  it  feels,  so  clean  its  touch,  so  free 
from  earthly  tamt.  And  so  refreshingly  cool ! 
Is  there  anything  more  life-giving  than  the 
high  mountain  air  in  your  face  as  you  wander 
leisurely  along  an  upland  crest  or  pause  for  a 
moment  on  some  moss-covered  boulder !  Small 
wonder  that  physicians  sometimes  send  their 
patients  sLx  and  seven  thousand  feet  up  on 
the  mountain  side.  That  air  has  proved  many 
times  a  veritable  call-back  from  the  grave. 
Nature  is  not  always  so  cruel  as  she  seems. 
She  is  merely  exacting.  Live  as  she  designed 
you  to  live  and  you  may  live  long.  It  was  not 
of  her  planning  that  you  should  live  in  a  city, 
in  the  air  of  a  hothouse. 

Nor  did  she  plan  for  our  spending  most  of 
our  lives  in  the  shade.  The  sunlight  is  as  es- 
sential to  the  human  as  to  the  tree  or  the  flower. 
And  where,  again,  shall  you  see  it  or  feel  it  in 
such  purity  and  splendor  as  high  up  on  the 
mountain !    Coming  through  a  dust-free  air, 


THE   UPLANDS 


105 


it  gives  small  hint  of  dispersion  into  color. 
It  is  not  yellow  or  rosy  but  comes  very  near 
being  pure  white  light.  The  great  sun-shafts 
that  break  through  loopholes  in  the  clouds 
are  like  bursts  of  silver  straight  from  heaven; 
and  where  the  beam  falls  upon  the  snow  of  an 
upper  peak  what  a  dazzling  spot  of  white  it 
produces !  One  gets  back  to  the  pristine  purity 
of  the  elements  as  he  rises  on  the  mountain 
side. 

And  with  the  purity  of  the  air,  the  clear- 
ness of  the  light,  what  vistas  one  sees  from 
the  uplands!  What  pictures  are  framed  in 
mountain  heights  and  valley  depths!  From 
Piz  deir  Ova  Cotschna  (8,890  feet)  above 
St.  Moritz,  for  instance,  there  is  the  look  to 
the  northeast  down  the  valley  of  the  Inn  with 
its  shelving  slopes  and  grass-grown  meadows 
rolling  like  folds  of  green  velvet — a  peaceful 
view  very  beautiful  in  the  afternoon  when 
bars  of  sun  and  shade  are  thrown  across  it, 
but  not  a  startling  showing  of  upper  peaks 
and  sharp-edged  precipices.  On  the  contrary, 
the  view  in  the  opposite  direction  toward 
Chiavenna  is  astonishing  in  its  tumbled  and 
tossed  heights  and  its  canyon  depths.  A  deep 
defile  leads  to  the  southwest  with  an  array 


106 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


of  lofty  peaks  on  either  side  of  it.  Snow  and 
glacier,  mountain  wall  and  waving  waterfall, 
clouds  and  sunbursts,  with  snow  caps  seen 
through  the  mist,  are  all  there.  Down  in  the 
valley  are  the  dark  surfaces  of  two  peacock- 
green  lakes,  and  far  beyond  Maloja,  where  the 
Alps  dip  down  to  Como,  the  gentian  blue  of 
the  sky  fits  into  the  notches  of  the  mountains 
like  a  block  of  old  Byzantine  mosaic. 

At  the  top  of  the  Bernina  Pass,  looking  to 
the  south,  the  view  is  even  more  impressive, 
though  quieter  and  less  distracting  to  the  eye. 
Scores  of  mountains  are  pitched  upon  a  slop- 
ing field — sloping  downward  again  into  Italy. 
Mountains  rounded,  pointed,  flat-topped,  and 
square  mingle  with  mountains  gray,  blue,  red- 
dish, and  clay-colored.  Aspiring  turrets  belted 
with  hea\y  courses  of  precipitous  rock  look 
like  enchanted  castles  of  the  Titans,  and  mis- 
shapen domes  of  whitish  limestone  heave  into 
the  blue  with  a  startling  color  effect. 

A  very  different  panorama — another  tourist 
view — stretches  before  one  from  the  Kolner- 
hiitte  (7,626  feet)  near  Karersee  in  the  Dol- 
omite region.  There  you  see  a  hemicycle  of 
white  mountains  with  the  Ortler  group  in  the 
centre.     The  white  peaks  begin  at  the  extreme 


THE  UPLANDS 


107 


left  with  the  Fleimsthal,  the  Latemar,  the 
Brenta,  the  Adamello.  Then  come  the  Ortler, 
and  swinging  round  to  the  right  the  Otzthal, 
the  Stubai,  and  the  spurs  of  the  Rosengarten. 
At  your  back  are  the  walls  of  the  Rothenwandt. 
There  are  four  ranges — four  planes  in  the 
panorama  that  the  eye  meets  and  crosses — 
before  you  reach  the  Ortlers.  The  blue  air 
lying  in  drifts  in  the  valleys  rises  with  the 
heat  of  the  sun.  The  distant  peaks  show 
faint  and  far.  They  are  snow-covered  and 
above  them  small  clouds  with  flat  bases  hover 
like  distant  aeroplanes.  The  huge  valleys  are 
stretches  of  dark  green,  dull  blue,  and  pale 
purple;  the  rocks  and  precipices  are  gray- 
yellow,  orange-stained  with  lichens,  blackish 
with  dripping  water,  terra-cotta-hued  in  out- 
croppings  of  strata;  the  sky-line  is  a  ragged 
edge  of  snowy  peaks;  the  sky  above  is  like 
lapis  lazuli.  The  true  mountain-lover  looks  at 
such  a  panorama  perhaps  for  a  long  time  but 
says  little.  The  vast  array  of  ranges  is  too 
big  for  praise,  or  poetry,  or  comment  of  any 
kind.  It  is  something  we  accept  without  com- 
prehension— something  that  stifles  the  imagi- 
nation and  leaves  us,  perhaps,  with  a  dumb 
wonder. 


The  Ortler 
group. 


The  huge 
panorama. 


108 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


The  views  to  be  seen  from  the  uplands  in 
America  in  some  respects  are  even  grander 
than  those  in  the  Alps.  The  look  across  the 
plains  to  the  ^Mississippi,  which  may  be  had 
almost  am'T\'here  along  the  front  range  of  the 
Rockies,  is  a  marvel  in  its  inclusion  of  the 
large  elements.  Earth,  air,  and  sky  are  enor- 
mous spaces  made  sublime  by  extent  and  mass 
and  not  broken  or  weakened  in  force  by  dis- 
turbing details.  This  is  quite  as  true  of  the 
Colorado  Desert  seen  looking  east  from  the 
San  Bernardino  peaks  in  southern  California. 
A  huge  desert  world  reduced  to  its  primitive 
elements  is  before  you.  There  is  nothing  but 
range  upon  range  of  bare  porph\Ty  mountains 
and  valley  after  valley  of  desert  sand  and 
gravel;  but  what  massive  strength  in  the  bare 
rock,  what  majestic  grace  in  the  drifted  sands ! 
And,  above  all,  what  a  superb  opalescence  in 
the  air,  what  a  radiant  splendor  in  the  sky! 
It  is  an  enchanted  land,  soundless  and  tenant- 
less,  full  of  mystery,  uncanny  in  its  coloring, 
desolate  to  the  last  degree,  and  yet  perhaps 
the  most  enthralling,  fascinating  landscape 
under  the  sun. 

Quite  different  from  the  desert  views  are 
the  sights  to  be  seen  from  the  high  benches 


THE  UPLANDS 


109 


of  the  Mexican  mountains  below  the  City  of 
Mexico,  looking  down  the  western  valleys  to 
the  Pacific.  The  valleys  are  robed  in  tropical 
green  and  the  thread-like  lines  of  many  streams 
flash  in  the  sun.  Towns,  towers,  white  walls 
of  ancient  hadendm,  white  gleaming  roads  are 
there.  Fields  of  rice  and  cane  with  groves  of 
orange  and  rows  of  palm  check  the  surface  at 
times.  It  is  a  beautiful,  even  a  grand,  sight. 
But  we  seldom  concern  ourselves  with  that 
phase  of  the  view.  Our  wonder  is  caught  and 
held  by  the  enormous  expanse  of  the  val- 
leys— twenty-five  miles  in  width  by  a  hundred 
or  more  in  length — and  we  feel  only  the  world 
sweep  of  their  far-reaching  lines.  After  that 
Mexican  view  down  to  the  Pacific  all  the  rest 
of  the  world  seems  petty  or  confined  or  over- 
crowded with  small  things.  Nothing  goes 
beyond  it  save  the  great  reach  of  the  Him- 
alayas. 

When  the  wonder  over  the  world  panoramas 
begins  to  pall  we  turn  once  more  to  the  smaller 
beauties  on  the  mountain  slope.  The  green 
and  yellow  uplands  that  lie  back  of  St.  Moritz- 
Dorf  are  interesting  to  walk  over  aside  from 
the  air,  the  light,  and  the  view.  At  first  one 
marvels,  perhaps,  over  the  appearance  and  dis- 


Western 
valleys  of 
Mexico. 


The  sweep 
to  the  Pa- 
cific. 


Upland 
meadows. 


no 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


appearance  of  growths.  The  larches  go  out  at 
six  or  seven  thousand  feet,  but  why,  one  asks, 
does  the  dwarf  juniper  come  in  at  that  height  ? 
Daisies  and  buttercups  flourish  in  the  meadows 
down  at  sea-level,  but  the  Alpine  climber  will 
also  find  them  at  ten  thousand  feet  growing 
on  the  snow-line.  They  are  the  same  daisies 
and  buttercups,  only  smaller  in  stem  and  lowlier 
in  stature.  And  they  blossom  and  seed  at  the 
same  time  as  those  down  in  the  valley.  Violets, 
orange-colored  dandelions,  bluebells,  clovers, 
mountain  pinks  do  substantially  the  same 
thing;  but  why  do  the  Alpine  rose,  the  pink 
heather,  the  edelweiss  insist  upon  living  on 
the  wind-swept  uplands  and  not  elsewhere? 
Every  one  recognizes,  to  be  sure,  the  general 
statement  of  fact  that 

"  From  their  nature  will  the  tannen  grow 
Loftiest  on  loftiest  and  least  sheltered  rocks 
Rooted  in  barrenness," 

but  why  and  wherefore  the  nature  that  de- 
spises warmth  and  nourishment,  preferring  a 
starved  and  lonely  life  on  the  uplands? 

The  provision  of  nature  is  always  more  or 
less  surprising.  In  desert  sand  scorched  with 
heat  or  mountain  rock  frozen  with  cold,  it 


THE   UPLANDS 


111 


might  be  thought  she  would  not  attempt  to 
grow  plants — that  she  would  leave  the  spot 
bare  to  sun  and  wind.  But  no.  Just  where 
she  is  expected  to  fail  in  resource  there  she 
puts  forth  a  shrub  or  grass  or  flower  that 
fights  the  elements  for  life,  clings  stubbornly 
to  its  barren  bed,  and  brings  forth  a  progeny 
as  hardy  as  itself  to  carry  on  the  struggle. 
Of  course  it  is  a  dwarf  growth. 

"In    that    bleak    upland,   that   rare    mountain 

height. 
Where  sun  and  frost  succeed  by  day  and  night. 
What   other   than   the   dwarf  could   come   to 

light?" 

And  frequently  the  growth  is  wiped  out  en- 
tirely by  the  prevalence  of  conditions  neces- 
sary to  its  very  existence. 

"  The  warmth  that  stirs  the  juniper  to  spread 
Its  clinging  arms  along  a  granite  bed 
Unslips  an  avalanche  above  its  head." 

But  in  spite  of  circumstance  and  accident 
the  plants  live  on.  The  Alpine  growths  are 
all  of  them  good  strugglers.  They  fight  not 
only  the  long,  cold  winter  but  the  night  chill 
of  summer.    It  is  almost  always  frosty  at  night 


Nature's 
resources. 


The  dwarf 
growth. 


The  strug- 
gle for  life. 


112 


THE   MOUNTAIN 


Plant 
devices. 


Prodigali- 
ty of  flower, 
growths. 


on  the  uplands;  clouds  gather  early  in  the  day, 
and  snow  may  fall  at  any  time  during  the 
summer.  Besides,  there  are  winds  that  w^hip 
and  tear  at  the  lowly  growths  as  though  they 
would  wrench  them  from  their  footings.  The 
moss  lies  flat  and  presents  small  surface  to 
the  wind,  the  gray  and  orange  lichens  cling 
tenaciously  to  the  rock  and  move  not,  the 
larch  and  the  arolla  (the  Swiss  stone-pine) 
have  their  needles  that  foil  the  gusts,  besides 
cold-repelling  resins;  but  what  protection  have 
the  flowers — the  gentian,  the  harebell,  the 
primrose,  the  cowslip,  the  columbine,  the  nar- 
cissus, the  wild  geranium,  the  azalea?  They 
would  seem  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  the  ele- 
ments and  the  animals,  and  the  only  way 
nature  can  keep  them  from  extinction  is  by 
breed — by  prodigality  of  numbers. 

But  here  nature  does  not  fail.  There  seems 
no  such  thing  as  limit  of  numbers  to  the 
growths.  The  daisies  and  buttercups  lie  as 
thick  on  Swiss  slopes  as  in  American  meadows; 
the  lupins,  dandelions,  yellow  pansies,  violets, 
forget-me-nots,  gentians  grow  in  beds  that 
sometimes  spot  the  hillside  for  miles;  and  many 
a  hanging  valley  is  yellow-hued  with  great  fields 
of  waving  broom.     Very  beautiful  are  these 


THE   UPLANDS 


113 


flowers  in  their  clear,  pure  coloring,  their  fresh- 
ness, their  mountain  quality.  If  they  were 
refined  in  color  or  threw  off  much  perfume 
they  w^ould  hardly  be  appropriate  to  their 
blue-green  environment.  Again,  if  they  were 
very  delicate  they  would  not  stand  the  severity 
of  the  climate.  It  is  their  Alpine  character 
that  we  admire.  Beauty  may  lie  in  character 
and  fitness  quite  as  effectively  as  in  form  or 
color.  And  there,  again,  nature  never  fails. 
Her  growths  are  always  marked  by  adjustment 
to  need  and  place.  She  grows  no  garden  roses 
on  the  Alpine  snow-line  nor  does  she  plant  edel- 
weiss on  the  plains  of  Lombardy. 

The  wild  animals  of  the  Swiss  barrens  are 
few  where  the  flowers  are  many.  They  have 
largely  disappeared.  Occasionally,  in  protected 
regions,  the  Alpine  climber  sees  a  little  bunch  of 
chamois — sees  them  disappear  over  a  ridge — 
but  it  is  an  unusual  sight.  The  chamois  is  a 
short-bodied,  long-necked  antelope  with  the 
habits  of  a  goat.  He  lives  on  the  uplands 
near  the  snow-line  and  browses  on  the  short 
grass  and  bitter  plants  that  grow  there.  His 
brown  coat  blends  into  the  coloring  of  the 
rocks  and  herbage  so  closely  and  he  stands  so 
still  that  you  do  not  see  him,  but  he  has  not 


Their 

Alpine 

character. 


Swiss 
fauna. 


The 
chamois. 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


the  slightest  difficulty  in  seeing  you.  He  is 
always  on  the  alert,  always  suspicious.  If 
you  watch  him  while  he  is  grazing  you  will 
see  him  nibble  at  something  for  a  moment, 
then  stop,  look  all  around,  go  to  the  edge  of  a 
precipice  and  look  down  or  stand  with  head 
on  one  side  looking  up.  If  he  sees  nothing  he 
will  nibble  again  and  then  repeat  the  inspec- 
tion. He  is  well  equipped  with  eyes,  nose,  and 
ears,  like  all  of  the  antelope  family,  and  each 
sense  is  very  acute.  Perhaps  his  eye  is  the 
most  wonderful  feature  of  his  make-up.  It 
protrudes  from  its  socket  somewhat  like  a 
star-sapphire  from  a  ring.  It  sees  in  all  di- 
rections and  renders  the  animal  impossible  of 
approach  except  from  behind  cover. 

Strange  and  varying  stories  are  told  of  the 
chamois's  agility  and  jumping  powers.  Some 
writers  make  them  jump  anything  up  to  four- 
teen feet  high  and  eighteen  feet  wide.  As  for 
going  down  mountain  sides  or  over  precipices, 
the  tales  told  are  still  more  fantastic.  They 
certainly  have  high  powers  in  jumping  crev- 
asses, and,  being  goat-footed,  they  do  some 
amazing  jumping  along  the  ledges  of  cliffs;  but 
they  hardly  go  over  abrupt  precipices,  staying 
or  guiding  their  fall  by  dragging  their  hoofs 


THE   UPLANDS 


115 


along  the  sheer  side,  though  they  are  sometimes 
seen  humped  up  in  straitened  circumstances 
on  a  precipitous  ledge,  and  one  wonders  how 
they  got  up  there  or  how  they  will  ever  get 
down  again.  Strange  animals,  driven  up  from 
the  meadows,  up  through  the  timber-line,  by 
man,  they  have  adapted  themselves  to  the 
barrens  and  the  snows  and  cling  there  as  tena- 
ciously as  the  stunted  herbage  upon  which 
they  feed. 

"And  still  they  live,  these  children  of  the  rock, 
Gray  moss,  dark  shrub,  the  meagre  chamois 

flock, 
Their  natures   trained    and   tempered   to   the 

shock. 

"Nor  live  in  vain,  the  hardy  mountain  clan 
Are  but  exemplars  of  creation's  plan, 
That  all  shall  fight  for  life  and  those  shall  live 
who  can." 

The  only  other  animal  of  the  upper  regions, 
besides  the  chamois,  that  one  sees  is  the  mar- 
mot. Even  he  appears  much  oftener  in  ad- 
vertisements for  summer  hotels  than  in  reality. 
He  is  only  a  stupid  woodchuck  that  spends 
most  of  the  year  sleeping  in  a  burrow  and  the 
rest  of  the  time  dozing  on  a  sunny  rock.    The 


116 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


The 
whistler. 


Rocky 

Mountain 
flora. 


Swiss  specimen  is  about  as  big  as  a  rabbit,  is 
grayish  brown,  and  in  many  ways  is  not  unlike 
the  American  prairie-dog.  A  larger  specimen 
is  met  with  above  the  timber-line  in  the  north- 
ern Rockies  and  is  known  by  its  whistle.  The 
older  hunters  and  trappers  still  call  him  the 
whistler.  He  has  a  dirty  white  neck  and 
shoulders  and  is  quite  as  lacking  in  energy  as 
his  Alpine  cousin. 

The  uplands  of  the  Rockies  are  in  many 
ways  different  from  those  of  the  Alps.  In 
places  of  rainfall  the  grass  and  short  herbage 
are  thicker  and  of  a  brighter  green  up  to  the 
very  snow-banks.  As  for  the  floral  display, 
it  is  quite  baffling  to  describe  because  of  its 
great  variety.  Almost  ever}i;hing  that  grows 
in  the  Alps  and  hundreds  of  varieties  besides 
are  to  be  found.  As  the  altitude  increases 
the  growths  become  hardier  and  grayer  until 
finally  they  disappear.  But  while  disappear- 
ing, so  far  as  our  eyes  are  concerned,  some  of 
them  may  be  growing  under  the  snow  with  a 
strange  insistence  that  their  time  for  flower- 
ing has  come  and  that  the  snow  is  holding 
them  back.  It  is  astonishing  in  the  summer- 
time what  chill  and  frost  they  will  endure,  sur- 
vive, and  even  conquer.    The  avalanche  lily 


THE  UPLANDS 


117 


(sometimes  called  adder's-tongue)  not  only 
grows  under  the  ice-sheet  that  hardens  along 
the  edge  of  the  snow-line,  but  it  grows  through 
a  foot  or  more  of  ice  and  comes  out  to  the 
sunlight.  The  hole  through  the  ice  that  it 
melts  or  drills  is  not  more  than  half  an  inch 
in  diameter — just  enough  to  let  the  flower  stem 
pass  through.  Thousands  of  these  stems  may 
be  seen  pushing  through  the  ice-sheet,  and 
where  the  ice  has  receded  and  left  them  free 
thousands  more  are  in  bloom  with  delicate  pale 
petals  trembling  in  the  breeze. 

In  June,  as  the  ice-sheet  or  snow-line  recedes, 
flowers  of  all  kinds  follow  it.  Spring  beauties, 
paint-brushes,  buttercups,  lavender  anemones 
come  up  out  of  the  cold  ground  in  hosts  in- 
numerable. A  little  behind  them,  a  little  later, 
come  the  purple  lupins,  the  red  and  purple 
pentstemons,  the  phloxes,  the  squaw  grass,  the 
asters  sometimes  mistaken  for  daisies.  Close 
up  to  the  snow  live  also  such  hardy  growths  as 
the  purple  and  white  heather — a  true-enough 
heather  but  different  from  the  Scotch  variety. 
Indeed,  the  upland  slopes  of  the  Rockies  from 
Mexico  to  Canada  grow  peculiar  plants  that 
seem  to  have  only  a  general  likeness  to  plants 
elsewhere  on  the  globe.    And  all  of  them  are 


The  ava- 
lanche lily. 


Growing 
through  the 
ice-sheet. 


Flowers 
on  the 
snow-line. 


118 


THE  MOUNT.\IN 


excellent  fighters  for  life.  The  cold  and  the 
frost  add  a  zest  and  result  merely  in  a  height- 
ened color.  For  it  seems  as  though  the  color 
of  the  plants  here  was  even  more  brilliant, 
more  primary,  than  with  the  Alpine  flora.  Of 
course,  all  the  mountain  growths  have  learned 
their  lesson  well  throughout  the  ages.  They 
all  tell  a  similar  tale  of  simplicity,  hardihood, 
fortitude. 

The  animals  of  the  Rockies  that  are  found 
above  the  timber-line  are  said  to  be  arctic  in 
character  because  the  same  species  are  found 
within  the  arctic  circle.  Preferring  cold  to 
warmth,  it  seems  immaterial  to  them  whether 
they  live  upon  mountains  ten  thousand  feet 
up  or  live  in  valleys  farther  north  and  nearer 
the  pole,  for  in  either  place  similar  temperature 
and  practically  similar  food  are  obtainable. 
The  moose,  the  elk,  the  mule-deer,  the  bears 
do  not  go  above  the  timber,  as  a  rule,  and  are 
not  distinctly  upland  fauna;  but  the  sheep  and 
goats  are  peculiar  to  the  region — that  is,  they 
are  seldom  found  elsewhere. 

The  bighorn  is  the  tj-pe  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tain sheep.  There  are  several  varieties  found 
in  different  parts  of  the  mountains  from  the 
desert  ranges  of  Arizona  to  the  snow  ranges  of 


THE   UPLANDS 


119 


Alaska.  They  are  all  remarkable  for  the  im- 
mense size  and  nearly  spiral  curve  of  their 
horns.  The  tales  told  of  the  wonderful  things 
done  with  those  horns — the  downward  leaps 
over  precipices,  the  turning  over  in  air,  the 
alighting  uninjured  on  the  horns — quite  rival 
the  stories  about  the  Swiss  chamois.  In  re- 
ality, the  only  use  the  bighorn  has  for  his 
horns  is  in  fighting  his  own  kind.  He  is  a 
most  agile  climber  and  quite  as  well  equipped 
with  protecting  senses  as  the  chamois.  He  is 
always  on  the  lookout  from  inaccessible  ledges 
or  high  ridges  where  he  wanders  with  a  sure 
foot.  He  likes  to  graze  on  the  uplands  at 
night  and  morning,  going  up  higher  in  the 
mountains  during  the  day.  As  an  adaptation 
to  harsh  surroundings  he  is  a  great  success, 
and  it  is  something  of  a  pity  that  his  numbers 
are  so  rapidly  dwindling.  In  the  inaccessible 
heights  of  the  southern  Rockies,  even  in  the 
desert  mountains  of  southern  California,  he 
still  exists  in  small  bands,  but  gradually  his 
kind  seems  to  be  falling  farther  back  into  the 
ranges  of  British  Columbia  and  Alaska. 

The  same  tale  of  disappearance  is  true  of 
the  Rocky  Mountain  goat.  He  is  now  rarely 
found  south  of  British  Columbia  and  is  much 


120 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Not  so 
agile  as  the 
sheep. 


American 
birds  above 
the  timber. 


scarcer  than  the  sheep.  Perhaps  that  is  be- 
cause he  is  rather  stupid  and  does  not  keep 
so  sharp  a  lookout  as  he  might.  He  goes  in 
bands,  following  certain  beaten  trails  along 
the  rocks  and  across  taluses,  and  his  undoing 
I  may  be  put  down  to  these  habits.  The  only 
safeguard  for  health  and  long  life  that  he 
possesses  is  a  white,  hairy  coat  that  is  not 
easily  seen  against  a  snow  backgroimd.  In 
addition  he  chooses  for  his  habitat  the  very 
loftiest  ridges,  where,  being  sure  of  foot,  he 
travels  with  safety  and  ease.  He  is  a  great 
climber  but  not  at  all  remarkable  as  a  runner. 
Nor  does  he  jump  over  precipices  and  alight 
upon  his  horns.  As  a  jumper  he  has  some  local 
reputation,  but  it  is  not  that  of  the  bighorn. 
As  for  the  birds,  one  is  not  able  to  discover 
many  varieties  above  the  timber-line  either  in 
Europe  or  America — that  is,  birds  that  live 
there  during  the  season.  In  the  Swiss  barrens 
there  is  a  thrush-like  bird  that  nests  along  the 
edge  of  broken  banks  in  the  heather  or  moss, 
some  snowbirds,  some  sailing  hawks  and  owls, 
but  no  song-birds  save  an  occasional  sparrow. 
In  the  Rockies  it  is  practically  the  same  tale. 
There  are  eagles,  buzzards,  and  owls,  and  on 
the  southern  Coast  Range  the  condor  is  still 


THE   UPLANDS 


121 


seen  occasionally.  In  isolated  spots  at  the 
north  one  finds  a  white  grouse  or  ptarmigan 
that  belongs,  perhaps,  to  the  arctic  circle.  He 
lives  on  the  uplands  much  as  the  grouse  upon 
the  Scotch  moors,  save  that  he  is  a  hardier 
bird,  has  a  rougher  environment,  and  is  a  more 
beautiful  and  perfect  creation. 

The  birds,  animals,  and  plants  of  the  up- 
lands are  all  alike  in  that  nature  tempers 
no  winds  to  them,  smooths  no  pathways  for 
them,  has  no  watchful  eye  for  them.  All  that 
she  does  is  to  increase  the  tap-root,  the  plu- 
mage, the  muscling,  the  senses,  the  intelligence. 
They  fight  their  own  fights  and  struggle  with 
their  own  struggles.  That  out  of  the  strife 
comes  strength,  mastery,  high  development 
in  one  case,  and  failure,  death,  extinction  in 
another  case  is  apparently  matter  of  no  con- 
cern. She  furnishes  the  equipment  and  the 
environment.  For  the  rest,  let  each  growth 
look  to  itself.  Stern  law !  But  how  inevita- 
bly right!  How  otherwise  than  from  adver- 
sity shall  be  wrung  those  dominant  and  abid- 
ing qualities,  fitness  and  character,  wherewith 
the  world  sustains  itself  and  is  a  thing  of 
beauty  forever ! 


The  white 
grouse. 


Nature's 
equipment. 


Laws  of 

life. 


The  wet 
uplands. 


Pools  on 
the  barrens. 


CHAPTER  VII 
MOUNTAIN  WATERS 

The  uplands  are  not  only  the  first  lands  to 
catch  the  drainage  from  the  upper  snows,  but 
they  are  also  in  the  belt  of  heavy  rain-precipi- 
tation and  are  the  first  to  feel  the  descending 
showers.  As  a  result  they  are  usually  wet  lands 
having  much  boulder  and  gravel,  much  thin 
grass,  moss,  and  lichen,  many  small  streams, 
and  numerous  pools  and  lakelets.  The  glacier 
streams  lower  down  are  also  made  up  from  the 
drainage  of  the  snows,  but  they  are  usually 
much  larger,  they  gather  and  run  in  deep  val- 
leys, and  have  quite  another  look  and  char- 
acter. 

The  little  pool  is  something  found  almost 
everywhere  in  the  high  mountains,  but  it  seems 
more  appropriate,  more  at  home,  on  the  grass- 
and-rock  barrens  than  elsewhere.  It  is  usually 
a  shallow  mirror,  bright  in  reflection  of  sky, 
cloud,  and  mountain  peak,  but  nothing  more. 
If  it  is  the  catch-basin  of  rains  and  its  bordering 
shores  are  heather-covered  or  moss-grown,  it 
may  have  a  pale-ale  hue  about  its  water;  but 
122 


MOUNTAIN  WATERS 


123 


ordinarily  it  will  be  clear  and  quite  colorless. 
That  is,  it  will  have  no  local  hue  of  its  own  but 
may  reflect  the  color  of  anything  about  it  and 
be  influenced  somewhat  by  the  light  or  dark 
of  its  bottom.  Should  the  pool  or  lakelet  be 
formed  at  the  base  of  some  small  glacier  its 
water  will  be  jade-colored  or  Nile  green  by 
reason  of  the  granite  and  mica  particles  sus- 
pended in  the  water.  A  large  lake  produced 
in  this  way,  where  much  of  the  sediment  has 
a  chance  to  settle  at  the  bottom,  will  be  a 
peacock  green  in  color  with  streaks  of  lapis- 
lazuli  blue,  or  perhaps  variations  of  blue  and 
green  dependent  upon  the  light.  Neither  of 
these  brilliant  colors  improves  the  mirror  qual- 
ity of  the  lake,  for  the  best  reflection  comes 
from  the  clearest  water. 

In  clearness  of  reflection  nothing  could  be 
more  perfect  than  Crater  Lake  at  the  head  of 
the  Rogue  River  in  Oregon.  It  is  seven  thou- 
sand feet  above  sea-level  and  sunk  a  thousand 
feet  in  a  round  crater  that  is  seven  miles  in 
diameter.  It  has  no  visible  intake  or  outlet 
and  is  supposed  to  be  the  direct  result  of 
snow  and  rain.  Lying  deep  down,  it  is  usually 
smooth  or  only  slightly  ruflled  by  wind.  And 
its  reflection  of  sky,  clouds,  and   encircling 


Hues  of 

mountain 

lakelets. 


Crater 
Lake  re- 
flections. 


124 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


walls  is  astonishing.  The  reflection  is  a  trifle 
darker  than  the  object  reflected,  and  the  hue  is 
a  very  delicate  blue-green.  The  lake  is  some- 
thing more  than  a  guide-book  wonder;  it  is  a 
marvel  of  light  and  color.  The  Swiss  or  Italian 
lakes  are  not  comparable  to  it.  They  are  much 
less  refined  in  tone  and  far  coarser  in  the  re- 
flection. Yet  the  dark  Swiss  lakes  with  their 
intense  blue-green  have  a  splendid,  jewel-like 
coloring  of  their  own  which  makes  up  for  any 
slurring  or  blurring  of  the  reflection.  That 
Walter  Pater  spoke  of  them  as  "horrid  pots 
of  blue  paint,"  and  shut  his  eyes  in  crossing 
the  Alps  that  he  might  not  see  them,  argues 
nothing  against  their  beauty  but  something 
against  over-refinement  of  the  aesthetic  sense. 
It  is  possible  to  refine  one's  sensibilities  to 
the  point  of  attenuation. 

Almost  all  of  the  smaller  mountain  lakes — 
and  they  grow  smaller  as  the  altitude  in- 
creases until  they  become  known,  poetically 
or  romantically,  as  "lakes  of  the  sky"  and 
"mirrors  of  the  cloud" — have  outlets  in  some 
little  stream  that  goes  dashing  down  a  moun- 
tain side  to  join  a  mountain  brook.  At  first 
the  brook  is  a  very  modest  little  stream,  has 
shallow  banks,  winds  under  huge  rocks,  stops 


MOUNTAIN   WATERS 


125 


in  little  pools,  or  falls  gracefully  over  some 
ledge  of  rock  into  a  basin  where  bubbles  come 
and  go  and  small  trout  lie  hid  and  the  sun- 
light flickers  on  the  falling  water.  Almost 
always  these  little  brooks,  at  some  point  in 
their  winding,  will  cross  an  open  mountain 
meadow  where  daisies  and  buttercups  are 
standing  in  clumps,  and  columbines,  perhaps, 
are  swinging  and  swaying  over  the  hurrying 
water,  and  yellow-and-blue  beds  of  low-lying, 
nameless  flowers  are  woven  in  the  thick  green 
grass.  Very  lovely  and  pure  are  these  brook- 
sides  with  their  flowers.  They  are  nature's 
precious  tapestries,  and  not  even  the  dazzling 
snows  and  sunset  hues  of  the  high  peaks  above 
them  can  dull  their  color  or  dwarf  their  deli- 
cate beauty. 

After  passing  the  meadows  the  brook  may 
become  larger  and  more  noisy,  plunging  and 
leaping  over  huge  boulders  down  steps  and 
terraces,  running  swiftly  under  majestic  firs, 
flashing  brightly  in  spots  of  sunlight — a  glit- 
tering thread  of  life  on  the  dark  mountain  side, 
a  voice  in  the  silent  forest.  \Vhat  enchant- 
ment in  the  murmur  of  that  water !  The  waves 
of  the  seashore  will  beat  into  your  brain  a 
tragic  monotone — a  dirge  or  funeral  march — 


126 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


but  the  mountain  stream  gurgles,  babbles,  and 
tinkles  with  suggestions  of  fairy  bells  in  Elf- 
land.  It  is  joyous,  fanciful,  entrancing — even 
under  the  midnight  stars  when  you  are  Ijing 
beside  it  and  cannot  sleep  for  the  lonehness 
of  the  wilderness  about  you. 

As  the  brook  winds  down  still  farther  it 
grows  by  the  accretions  of  side  streams,  be- 
comes fuller,  and,  where  there  is  gravel  or 
loose  rock,  begins  to  cut  a  deep  channel  in  the 
mountain  side.  But  perhaps  the  flat  rocks  of 
the  underlying  beds  soon  force  it  to  the  sur- 
face again  and  spill  it  over  some  high  ledge 
into  the  air.  Then  we  have  the  mountain 
waterfall,  with  which  every  traveller  is  familiar. 

Many  of  the  high  mountains  have  illustra- 
tions of  the  mountain  stream  being  shunted 
over  a  precipice — the  waterfall  shot  out  into 
the  air.  Sometimes  it  is  a  permanent  feature 
of  the  landscape,  but  more  often  it  is  seen 
only  after  a  hea\y  rainfall.  In  the  Alps  an 
hour's  do"\;\Tipour  is  sufficient  to  make  all  the 
mountain  sides  run  streams  and  waterfalls  in 
lines  of  foaming  silver.  Of  course  they  dry 
up  and  disappear  a  few  hours  after  the  rain 
ceases,  but  while  they  last  they  are  graceful 
and  brilliant  affairs,  falling,  as  many  of  them 


MOUNTAIN  WATERS 


127 


do,  several  hundred  feet  and  often  breaking 
into  spray  and  mist  before  the  ground  is 
reached. 

Of  the  mountain  waterfalls  that  dash  and 
wave  the  whole  year  through,  the  Staubbach 
in  Switzerland  and  the  Yosemite  in  Califor- 
nia are,  perhaps,  the  best  known  to  the  aver- 
age traveller.  The  Staubbach  sways  with  the 
wind,  pitches  down 

"  in  a  glittering  flight 
Like  a  torrent  of  stars  from  the  Bowl  of  Night," 

and,  being  of  only  moderate  volume,  it  dis- 
sipates into  water-dust  before  reaching  the 
valley.  The  Yosemite  has  a  larger  stream 
and  falls  some  twenty-six  hundred  feet  in 
three  leaps,  again  swaying  in  the  wind  and 
scattering  clouds  of  rainbow  spray  on  either 
side  of  it. 

"  As  it  sinks  and  breaks 

Into  cloud  and  mist, 

The  water-dust  takes 

Hues  of  amethyst, 
And  across  it  thrown,  in  a  gleam  and  glow, 
Are  the  spectrum  hues  of  the  bended  bow." 

There  are  waterfalls  in  every  well-watered 
mountain  district  though  few  of  them  fall  so  far 


The 
Staubbach. 


The 

Yosemite 

falls. 


128 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Cataracts 
not  in 
mountains. 


The  re- 
united 
waters. 


Wearing  a 
canyon. 


as  the  instances  cited.  As  for  the  huge  cat- 
aracts hke  Niagara  and  Victoria  Falls,  their 
downward  pitch  is  slight  compared  with  the 
smaller  streams,  Niagara  being  a  fall  of  only 
one  hundred  and  sixty  feet  and  Victoria  four 
hundred  feet.  It  is  the  volume  of  water  pour- 
ing over  them  that  makes  them  impressive. 
Such  a  volume  of  water  would  not  be  possible 
on  a  mountain  side.  Even  if  a  sufficient  source 
of  supply  could  be  obtained  so  high  up  in  the 
mountains,  the  force  of  the  falling  water  would 
mean  swift  destruction  to  both  the  mountain 
side  and  the  valley.  All  the  great  falls  are  in 
the  valleys  and  belong  to  broad  rivers. 

After  a  mountain  torrent  has  dashed  itself 
to  pieces  down  a  precipitous  height  its  frag- 
ments usually  come  together  again  at  the 
bottom;  and,  presently,  the  reunited  stream 
wears  for  itself  a  new  channel  and  moves  on 
as  before.  As  it  descends  it  continues  to  grow 
in  size,  cuts  a  deeper  bed  because  there  is 
more  earth  and  soft  debris  into  which  it  may 
be  cut,  and,  as  it  carries  in  its  water  sand  and 
small  gravel,  its  power  of  cutting,  even  into 
hard  layers  of  rock,  is  increased.  The  tend- 
ency of  it  is  to  wear  back  into  the  mountain 
wall,  and,  after  many  centuries  of  this  wear, 


MOUNTAIN  WATERS 


129 


perhaps  a  gorge  or  canyon  comes  into  exist- 
ence. 

The  word  "canyon"  always  brings  up  the 
thought  of  the  great  slash  in  the  ground  caused 
by  the  Colorado  River,  just  as  the  word 
"cataract"  immediately  suggests  Niagara; 
but  I  mean  neither  of  these,  for  neither  of 
them  belongs  properly  to  the  mountains. 
There  are  a  hundred  steep  defiles  in  the  Pacific 
Coast  Range  that  have  been  made  by  torrents 
and  through  which  torrents  still  pour  on  their 
way  down  to  the  plain  and  the  sea.  They  are 
all  somewhat  similar,  and  perhaps  the  one  I 
have  now  in  mind  will  answer  in  description 
for  the  others. 

The  canyon  of  the  Coquille  River  in  Oregon 
is  down  in  the  timber-line  and  has  abrupt 
walls  of  rock  with  mosses  and  lichens  clinging 
to  them,  with  flowers  and  ferns  and  stunted 
bushes  growing  along  the  ledges,  with  surface- 
water  oozing  from  the  niches  and  falling  in 
an  endless  drip  on  the  rocks  below.  Down 
in  its  bed  of  boulders  the  little  stream  boils 
and  pitches  and  roars,  cutting  and  wearing 
out  a  deeper  bed  for  itself  as  the  years  go  on. 
What  it  has  already  done  is  apparent  not  only 
from  the  high,  water-worn  walls  on  either  side 


Pacific 

Coast 

canyons. 


Coquille 

River 

canyon. 


130 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Wear  of 
rock. 


Gorge  of  the 
Coquille. 


Cali- 

fornian 

canyons. 


but  from  the  rounded  boulders  in  the  stream, 
from  the  shelving  shores  of  rock,  and  from  the 
enormous  pot-holes  that  have  been  worn  in 
the  rocky  shores.  Some  of  the  holes  are  like 
huge  cisterns,  are  a  dozen  feet  deep,  eight  feet 
in  diameter,  and  almost  as  perfect  in  their 
rotundity  as  though  a  machine  had  cut  them. 
But  the  whirling  water  with  a  hard,  round 
stone  for  a  grinder  was  the  only  machine  that 
worked  upon  them. 

There  are  falls  in  this  Coquille  River  with 
rock  basins,  running  rapids,  babbling  shallows, 
and  deep  pools  lying  under  overarching  trees. 
It  is  more  of  a  brook  than  a  river  and  has  all 
the  characteristics  of  the  mountain  stream. 
The  gorge  it  has  cut  is  narrow,  even  dark  in 
places — so  dark  that  the  sky  overhead  seems 
like  a  mere  ribbon  of  blue  stretched  across 
the  top.  Heavy  precipitation  of  rain  or  a 
bare  mountain  side  where  the  water  runs  oflF 
with  swiftness,  carrying  with  it  huge  stones 
that  fracture  and  cut  their  way,  seems  neces- 
sary for  the  production  of  such  a  cleft.  The 
desert  mountains  of  Arizona  or  the  Californian 
mountains  supply  such  conditions  even  better 
than  those  of  Oregon.  The  upper  Rogue  River 
in  Oregon,  King's  River  or  the  Kaweah  in 


MOUNTAIN  WATERS 


131 


California,  are  picturesque  and  perhaps  more 
familiar  examples  than  the  Coquille. 

There  is  nothing  quite  like  these  Pacific 
canyons  in  the  AUeghanies  or  the  Pyrenees 
or  the  Alps.  The  pitch  down  from  Maloja 
to  Chiavenna  is  now  only  a  steep,  descending 
valley,  the  road  up  to  Zermatt  follows  a  roar- 
ing torrent  but  has  no  enclosing  walls,  and 
the  precipices  of  the  Lauterbrunnen  valley 
probably  never  formed  a  canyon  at  any  time. 
The  valley  coming  down  from  Karersee  to 
Botzen  is  decidedly  more  of  a  canyon  effect 
with  its  upright  walls  of  rock,  and  is  profoundly 
picturesque;  but  the  valley  between  Predazzo 
and  San  Martino  is  more  characteristic  of 
the  eastern  Alps  with  its  sloping  meadows 
of  grass,  its  patches  of  pine,  and  its  flow- 
ing stream  that  turns  the  mills,  irrigates  the 
meadows,  and  gladdens  the  life  of  the  valley 
dwellers. 

These  canyon  streams  are  rather  lonely 
places,  and  one  may  watch  the  play  of  water 
over  rocks  sometimes  for  hours  without  in- 
terruption from  man,  beast,  or  bird.  And  yet 
there  is  some  life  there.  Somewhere  along 
almost  every  one  of  them  will  be  found  a  pair 
of   water-ousels.     They  are   said   to  be  shy 


132 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


birds,  but  perhaps  that  is  merely  a  way  of 
accounting  for  their  being  found  in  lonely 
places.  They  fly  with  a  rapid-beating  wing, 
alight  on  stones  in  the  streams,  and  bob  up 
and  down  for  some  seconds  before  they  begin 
to  move  about.  Then  they  run  in  the  shallow 
water,  dive,  push  their  heads  imder  the  water, 
and  turn  over  the  small  stones  looking  for 
food,  much  as  the  starling  uses  his  beak  to 
turn  over  dead  grass.  They  are  very  active 
in  wading  and  diving  and  are  even  said  to 
fly  under  water,  but  this  latter  feat  is  seldom 
observed.  Besides  the  ousel  there  are  a  num- 
ber of  fluttering,  long-tailed  little  birds  that 
live  along  the  streams  and  catch  flies,  bugs, 
and  beetles  for  a  living.  They  are  expert  in 
manoeuvring  in  the  air  for  a  June-bug  or  a 
beetle,  and  generally  succeed  in  breaking  the 
back  of  the  quarry  at  the  first  snap.  In  re- 
pose they  all  have  trouble  in  keeping  a  proper 
equilibrium  between  head  and  tail  and  teeter 
a  good  deal.  The  more  common  mountain 
streams  running  across  meadows  and  through 
open  timber,  such  as  that  coming  down  from 
Paradise  Valley  on  Mount  Rainier,  for  in- 
stance, have,  of  course,  a  greater  variety  of 
bird  and  animal  life  along  their  banks. 


MOUNTAIN  WATERS 


133 


Glacier  streams  in  the  different  mountain 
ranges  have  some  similarity  of  character  one 
to  the  other  and  yet  are  not  exactly  alike. 
And  they  differ  from  what  we  have  called  the 
canyon  and  the  mountain  stream  even  in 
the  same  range.  The  latter  are  frequently 
the  direct  distillation  of  the  clouds  caught  by 
a  surface  drainage  and  carried  quickly  to  the 
lower  lakes  or  rivers;  whereas  the  former  is 
the  seepage  from  the  bottom  of  a  glacier  and 
is  quite  another  story.  The  glacier  stream 
does  not  flow  so  easily  or  so  smoothly  as  the 
mountain  stream.  It  pours  over  a  boulder  bed 
and  is  retarded  by  boulder  shores,  but  it  has 
an  enormous  push  about  it  and  its  oscillations 
from  side  to  side  have  a  savage  cut.  Doubt- 
less from  the  sand  and  gravel  carried  in  the 
water  it  is  heavier  than  the  mountain  stream, 
which  may  have  something  to  do  with  its 
powerful  swinging  movement. 

A  mountain  stream  sometimes  runs  so  rap- 
idly over  a  boulder  bed  that  the  surface  of 
the  water  is  thrown  into  ridges  and  furrows. 
The  tops  of  these  ridges,  as  though  unable  to 
keep  up  with  the  pace  of  the  under  water,  have 
a  way  of  curling  back,  apparently  plunging 
up-stream  like  leaping  salmon  that  fall  and 


134 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


are  swept  down  again  by  the  running  water. 
All  shallow  streams  that  run  swiftly  show  these 
ridges  and  hollows,  but  the  glacier  stream,  per- 
haps, shows  them  less  than  the  others,  and 
where  they  appear  they  are  heavier  in  move- 
ment as  though  the  water  itself  were  heavier 
and  less  pliable  imder  pressure.  One  has  the 
same  feeling  about  the  rapids,  waterfalls,  and 
cataracts  of  glacier  rivers.  The  falls  of  the 
Bow  River  at  Banff  are  tremendous  in  volume, 
but  they  seem  to  fall  with  unusual  heaviness. 
One  wonders  if  the  sand  and  gravel  in  the 
water  have  an}i:hing  to  do  with  the  sullen 
thundering  plunge.  The  Kicking  Horse  River, 
full  of  grit  and  fry,  gives  the  same  general 
impression. 

If  there  is  any  question  about  the  weight 
of  the  glacier  stream,  there  can  be  none  what- 
ever about  its  color.  Everybody  recognizes 
that  color  at  once  because  it  is  peculiar  to 
the  snow-mountain  streams.  It  is  not  a  green, 
a  blue,  or  a  brown,  but  a  milky  or  sand  color 
when  the  stream  is  heavily  charged  with  silt, 
and  the  color  of  gray-green  jade  when  the 
water  is  deeper  and  freer  of  sediment.  This 
latter  is  the  local  color  of  the  glacier  stream, 
and  has  little  to  do  vrith  sky  reflection  because 


MOUNTAIN  WATERS 


135 


the  jade  color  shows  as  readily  under  clouds 
as  under  blue  sky.  The  color  is  influenced 
somewhat  by  the  gravel  bed  over  which  the 
stream  runs,  but  the  particles  of  sand  and 
mica  that  are  in  the  water  itself  form  the  main 
coloring  matter. 

As  the  stream  grows  in  volume  and  winds 
down  the  open  valley  at  a  slower  pace,  it  be- 
gins to  clear  though  still  retaining  its  jade 
hue.  The  waters  that  flow  from  the  Bernina 
glaciers  change  in  tone  when  they  reach  Sa- 
maden,  and  after  they  have  entered  the  Inn 
clear  still  more,  but  not  until  some  miles 
have  been  run.  The  Rhone  at  Geneva,  even 
after  it  has  had  a  chance  to  deposit  its  sands 
in  Lake  Geneva,  passes  out  of  the  lake  with 
a  greenish  glacier  quality  about  its  color. 
The  infinitely  small  particles  of  sand  and  mica 
are  still  in  it  and  give  it  that  tinge  of  local 
color  which  has  been  so  variously  reported 
upon  by  travellers. 

The  lakes  that  form  in  the  mountain  val- 
leys— their  beds  sometimes  scooped  out  by 
glaciers  and  their  waters  supplied  by  glacier 
streams — exhibit  many  phases  of  blue-green 
coloring  dependent  upon  the  quality  of  sedi- 
mental  deposits  combined  with  reflections  from 


Local  color 
of  water. 


The  Rhone 
at  Geneva. 


Mountain 
lakes. 


136 


THE   MOUNTAIN 


Emerald 
Lake  near 


sky  and  forest  and  mountain  side.  Emerald 
Lake,  near  Field  in  the  Canadian  Rockies,  is 
brilliant  in  peacock  blue  and  green,  less,  per- 
haps, from  its  solutions  than  from  its  reflec- 
tions. It  is  deep  sunk  in  the  hills,  surrounded 
by  heavily  timbered  mountains,  and  between 
the  reflections  of  blue  sky  and  green  trees  it 
is  almost  impossible  to  get  at  its  local  color. 
Besides,  there  is  an  unusual  blue  air  in  the 
valleys  about  Field.  That  makes  a  dark-blue 
sky  which  in  turn  spreads  a  darker  reflection 
upon  the  lake.  Lake  Louise,  more  directly 
fed  by  glacier  streams,  and  more  in  the  open, 
is  less  intense  in  coloring  though  still  a  decided 
blue-green.  Iceberg  Lake,  a  small  sheet  of 
water  on  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Rockies,  in 
what  is  now  called  the  Glacier  National  Park, 
has,  perhaps,  a  more  exquisite  tone  of  blue 
than  either  of  the  Canadian  lakes.  It  is  really 
a  glacier  pool  at  the  bottom  of  an  amphithea- 
tre of  rock — a  cirque,  so  called — and  is  fed  by 
small,  hanging  glaciers.  The  water  catches 
sky  and  rock  reflection  from  above  and  its  local 
hue  is  again  difficult  to  determine,  but  it  is,  per- 
haps, nearer  an  air  blue  than  any  other  tone. 

The  angle  of  reflection  at  which  a  lake  is 
seen,  of  course,  has  much  to  do  with  its  ap- 


MOUNTAIN   WATERS 


137 


pearance.  When  you  are  several  thousand 
feet  above  the  lakes  in  the  Engadine  and  look 
down  upon  them  they  show  the  weird  blues 
and  greens  of  Bocklin's  paintings.  One  por- 
tion of  the  surface  rippled  by  the  wind  will, 
perhaps,  show  green;  another  portion  in  the 
shadow  of  the  mountain  side  or  darkened  by 
the  late  afternoon  shadow  of  trees  will  be 
blue-black;  and  alongshore,  where  a  surface 
stream  swollen  by  a  recent  rain  is  pouring 
sandy,  muddy  water  into  the  lake,  there  is  a 
decided  jade  color  or  Nile  green.  Again,  Lake 
Nemi,  in  the  Alban  Mountains,  is  a  crater  lake, 
having  nothing  to  do  with  glaciers;  yet  when 
seen  from  the  top  of  Monte  Cavo,  looking 
down  upon  it,  it  shows  again  Bocklin's  blues 
and  greens.  The  steep  sides  of  the  lake — 
some  three  or  four  hundred  feet  or  more  in 
height — down  which  pour  the  little  drainage 
streams,  are  responsible  for  the  green,  as  the 
sky  overhead  for  the  blue.  Corot,  who  painted 
so  many  pictures  with  the  title  of  "Lake 
Nemi, "  never  gave  the  slightest  hint  of  these 
colors.  He  always  showed  the  white-light 
reflection  which  came  from  his  painting  down 
close  by  the  water  and  looking  across  it  at 
a  flattened  angle  of  vision. 


Engadine 
lakes. 


Lake 
Nemi. 


Corot 
painting 
Lake 
Nemi. 


138 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


CoToVs 
romancing 
of  fact. 


Byron  and\ 

Monte 

Cavo. 


Apostro- 
phe to  the 
sea. 


That  is,  if  he  painted  by  the  lake  at  all. 
The  steep  shores,  the  rocky  and  wooded  banks, 
the  heights  of  Monte  Cavo,  the  Italian  sky, 
are  as  absent  in  the  Corot  pictures  as  the  blue- 
green  water.  He  was  never  too  true,  topo- 
graphically, to  any  place,  and  was  very  fond 
of  painting  a  Corotesque  landscape  in  his  stu- 
dio and  giving  the  result  an  historical  or  clas- 
sical or  geographical  name  afterward.  His 
"Ville  d'Avray"  is  quite  as  false  to  local  fact 
as  his  "Lake  Nemi,"  but  his  convention  was 
not  the  less  beautiful  and,  from  an  art  point 
of  view,  perfectly  justifiable.  Art  is  not  a  map- 
making  affair. 

The  proximity  of  Monte  Cavo  to  the  lake 
suggests  another  genius  who  somewhat  tor- 
tured local  truth  just  here  to  produce  an  effect. 
Monte  Cavo  is  the  Alban  Mount  of  Childe 
Harold,  and  it  was  from  its  height  that  the 
ocean  was  duly  Byronized  in  Spenserian  verse. 
The  famous  apostrophe  was  another  studio 
production — written  first,  perhaps,  and  located 
afterward.  The  sea  from  the  top  of  Monte 
Cavo  does  not  "roll  on"  to  any  appreciable 
extent.  In  fact,  it  is  not  seen  except  on  clear 
days,  and  then  only  as  a  band  of  blue  beneath 
the  sky.    Besides,  it  is  not  the  ocean  but  the 


MOUNTAIN  WATERS 


139 


Mediterranean,  which  is  usually  in  rather  a 
docile  mood  just  here.  However,  there  was 
the  romantic  association  of  near-by  Rome 
which  justified  Byron's  distortion,  as  Corot's; 
and  in  any  event  poetry  and  painting  are  far 
removed  from  topography. 

As  far,  perhaps,  as  brilliant  prose-writing 
may  sometimes  be  from  dull  truth  or  prob- 
ability. Ruskin  has  some  compelling  sentences 
(which  I  am  far  from  belittling)  in  his  Modern 
Painters  to  the  effect  that  it  is  the  designed 
mission  of  the  mountains  and  the  hills  to  feed 
the  plains  with  living  streams,  thus  promoting 
the  fertility  of  the  earth,  the  purity  of  the 
air  and  sunlight,  and  tending  to  gladden  the 
existence  of  man.  In  the  mouth  of  the  great 
preacher  that  is  not  a  bad  conceit,  but  in  the 
reality  of  nature  it  is  not  so  very  apparent. 
In  British  Columbia,  and  sometimes  on  the 
east  coast  of  Mexico,  the  mountains  pour  down 
such  superabundant  streams  that  the  land  is 
inundated  and  man  is  incontinently  drowned 
out.  In  the  Andes  all  the  rain  descends  and 
practically  all  the  streams  run  on  the  eastern 
slope,  so  that  Bolivia  is  an  uninhabitable 
jungle,  while  Peru,  on  the  western  slope,  is  a 
desert  where  man  is  ever  on  the  dead-line 


Ruskin  on 
mountain 
waters. 


140 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Mission  of 

mountain 

waters. 


of  thirst.  All  of  which  suggests  that  the 
mountains  on  the  western  continent  sometimes 
shirk  their  mission  on  earth  and  raise  doubts 
in  prosaic  minds  about  their  having  a  mission 
at  all.  Perhaps  they  just  "happened";  and 
perhaps,  again,  they  have  poured  their  waters 
through  the  ages  down  upon  the  plains  just 
because  water  would  not  run  up-hill. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
GLACIERS  AND  AVALANCHES 

The  streams  that  roar  down  the  mountain 
sides,  leaping  over  precipices  and  breaking  into 
clouds  of  spray,  do  not  carry  away  all  the 
snows  that  gather  on  the  peaks.  Frequently 
the  upper  snow-fields,  by  thawing  and  freezing, 
become  packed  into  a  bed  of  ice  called  a  glac- 
ier, which,  perhaps,  moves  down  a  ravine  not 
more  than  a  foot  or  so  a  day.  The  glacier  in 
the  course  of  years  finally  reaches  into  a  lower 
valley,  where  it  melts  and  passes  off  in  a  drain- 
age stream  to  the  lowlands  and  the  sea.  It 
seems  a  connecting  link  between  the  peaks 
and  the  valley,  for  it  starts  in  the  cold  and 
ice  up  above  and  sometimes  ends  down  be- 
low in  a  summer  meadow  of  trees  and  flowers. 

But  the  glacier  is  not  seen  creeping  down 
every  mountain  valley.  In  the  temperate  zone 
only  the  high,  snow-clad  peaks  send  them 
forth,  and  even  among  these  certain  condi- 
tions are  necessary  to  their  formation  and  flow. 
An  adequate  snowfall,  a  thaw-and-freeze  tem- 
perature, an  altitude  or  a  latitude,  a  suitable 
141 


Formation 
of  glaciers. 


Conditions 
of  glacier - 
making. 


142 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Alpine 
glaciers. 


Glaciers  in 
the  Rockies. 


bed  are  primary  factors.  The  Carpathians, 
for  instance,  are  not  high  enough  for  glaciers, 
while  the  Andes  have  an  insuflficient  precipita- 
tion with  few  slopes  or  mountain  plateaus  to 
hold  and  congeal  the  snowfall.  The  Himalayas 
are  higher  in  the  air  by  a  third  than  the  Alps 
and  have  many  snow-fields  on  their  tops,  with 
a  few  hundred-mile  glaciers;  and  yet  the  Alps 
are,  perhaps,  more  famous  for  their  glaciers 
and  offer  better  illustrations  of  the  glacier 
type.  The  Aletsch  Glacier  is  not  the  largest 
and  the  longest  in  the  world,  and  the  Grindel- 
wald  Glacier  and  the  Mer  de  Glace  are  tourist- 
trodden  and  almost  commonplace,  but  they 
are  excellent  specimens  of  the  ice-river — better 
than  anything  in  the  central  Rockies  or  any- 
thing accessible  in  the  Caucasus. 

The  comparatively  light  snowfall  on  the 
Rockies  and  the  Sierra  Madre  accounts  in 
measure  for  the  scarcity  of  glaciers  there. 
Farther  to  the  north,  in  Canada,  in  the  Sel- 
kirks,  and  in  the  axial  range  of  the  Canadian 
Rockies,  there  is  an  increase  of  glaciers  with 
the  greater  snowfall,  and  when  one  reaches  the 
region  of  heavy  precipitation  in  Alaska  the 
glaciers  become  enormous.  In  these  high  lati- 
tudes the  ice-river  does  not  always  melt  and 


GLACIERS  AND  AVALANCHES 


143 


resolve  itself  into  a  stream  some  thousands 
of  feet  above  the  sea,  but  frequently  comes 
down  intact  to  the  very  sea  itself,  snaps  off 
on  its  submerged  end,  and  the  broken  part 
floats  out  to  sea  as  an  iceberg.  Still  farther 
north,  in  Greenland,  this  is  the  ordinary  way 
in  which  glaciers  run  their  course.  The  whole 
ice-cap  of  Greenland  has  something  of  the 
character  of  the  glacier  and  from  year  to  year 
keeps  slipping  slowly  toward  the  sea. 

The  formation  of  a  glacier  usually  begins 
with  the  fallen  snow  on  the  slopes  or  ravines 
or  plateaus  or  amphitheatres  of  the  mountains. 
Whatever  the  character  of  the  snow  when  it 
first  falls — whether  flaky  or  crystal-shaped  or 
spiculed — it  soon  turns  into  neve,  or  granu- 
lar snow.  As  it  settles  down  it  packs,  and 
by  packing,  thawing,  and  freezing  it  forms  into 
a  porous  snow-ice  at  the  bottom.  This  ice  is 
almost  always  crystalline  in  aggregation — that 
is,  made  up  of  many-sided  crystals.  It  may  be 
broken  or  crushed  by  squeezing,  or  changed 
in  look  according  to  the  circumstances  of  its 
formation,  but  the  crystal  is  its  component 
factor.  The  disposition  of  the  crystals  in 
glacier  ice  is  not  structural  but  haphazard, 
and  quite  different  from  that  in  lake  ice,  which 


The  Green- 
land ice- 
cap. 


The  ntvt. 


Crystals  in 
glacier  ice. 


144 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


The  first 
slip  down- 
ward. 


The  ice 
tongue. 


Piedmont 
glaciers. 


is  formed  in  columnar  masses  up  and  down. 
IMoreover,  the  snows  of  successive  seasons  are 
stratified  in  the  glacier  ice  and  lie  in  layers 
one  upon  another,  so  that  one  can  tell  the 
depth  of  each  season's  fall  and,  were  the 
glacier  exposed  in  cross-section,  the  number  of 
snowfalls  it  contains. 

In  its  first  formation  on  a  high  mountain- 
top  the  tendency  of  a  snow  or  ice  bed  is  to 
spread  and  slip  from  the  centre  downward. 
A  small  ravine  or  hollow  receiving  the  down- 
ward push  from  the  slopes  forms  a  snow  or 
ice  drift  which,  in  turn,  soon  starts  and  moves 
at  a  foot-a-day  pace  down  into  the  valley. 
This  is  the  ordinary  mlley  glacier.  It  is  merely 
an  ice  tongue  proceeding  from  the  central  cap, 
and  would  be  not  unlike  an  icicle  if  the  icicle 
would  lie  flat  and  slip  instead  of  hanging  do^sTi 
straight.  It  is  the  most  common  form  of 
small  glacier  and  is  sent  down  by  almost  every 
high  range  of  mountains. 

When  several  glaciers  starting  from  a  com- 
mon snow-field  reach  into  separate  little  val- 
leys and  come  together  at  the  bottom,  or 
when  one  huge  glacier  deploys  on  the  moun- 
tain side  and  the  deploying  parts  afterward 
come  together  again  down  in  the  valley,  the 


GLACIERS  AND  AVALANCHES 


145 


Hanging 
glaciers. 


result  is  called  a  piedmont  glacier.  Sometimes 
a  deploying  branch,  or  even  the  main  ice- 
stream,  arrives  in  a  lower  valley  in  a  more 
violent  and  hurried  manner  by  being  pushed 
over  a  precipice  and  gradually  breaking  off 
on  its  overhanging  end.  It  keeps  falling  at 
intervals  in  broken  fragments  almost  like  a 
frozen  waterfall,  not,  however,  with  the  roar 
of  waters  but  with  the  thundering  shock  of  the 
avalanche,  and  amid  clouds,  not  of  spray,  but 
of  ice-dust.  It  is  now  called  a  hanging  glacier 
and  is  starred  in  the  guide-book  as  something 
not  to  be  missed  by  the  visitor.  This  kind  of 
glacier  is  not  common,  neither  is  it  infrequent. 
The  Victoria  Glacier  seen  from  Lake  Louise 
in  the  Canadian  Rockies  shows  a  familiar  ex- 
ample. 

All  these  forms  of  glaciers  actually  move 
in  their  valley  beds,  like  rivers  of  ice,  but,  of 
course,  very  slowly  and  methodically.  It  was 
thought  for  a  long  time  that  they  were  mo- 
tionless— waters  frozen  in  the  valleys — but 
there  have  been  many  proofs  of  their  move- 
ment both  romantic  and  scientific.  For  in- 
stance, in  the  year  1820,  three  guides  were 
lost  in  a  crevasse  high  up  on  the  Mer  de  Glace. 
Their  bodies  were  not  recovered  until  1861 — 


Movement 
of  glaciers. 


The  Mcr 
de  Glace. 


146 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


forty-one  years  after — when  they  came  out 
with  the  ice  at  the  foot  of  the  glacier.  That 
was  proof  to  the  lay  mind  more  positive,  if 
more  gruesome,  than  any  scientist's  figures. 
Nevertheless,  the  scientists  have  tested  it  and 
proved  motion  in  other  ways  quite  as  con- 
vincing. 

A  row  of  stakes  driven  in  the  ice  across  the 
]\Ier  de  Glace  from  shore  to  shore  revealed  the 
fact  that  the  stakes  were  moving  very  slowly 
past  fixed  points  on  the  shores.  The  figm-es 
given  for  it  are  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  or 
two  hundred  yards  a  year,  or,  as  Tyndall  esti- 
mated it  at  different  points  along  the  glacier, 
from  twenty  to  thirty-six  inches  a  day.  The 
movement  of  all  glaciers  is  not,  of  course,  so 
slow  as  this.  The  condition  of  the  ice,  whether 
wet  or  dry,  deep  or  shallow,  gorged  or  spread 
out,  taken  in  connection  with  the  tempera- 
ture of  the  locality,  the  roughness  or  smooth- 
ness of  the  glacier  bed,  the  inclination  or  slope 
downward,  are  the  factors  determining  the 
speed.  Thus,  while  the  flattened  Mer  de 
Glace  moves  slowly,  and  requires  a  hundred 
years  for  the  snows  that  fall  on  the  Col  du 
Geant  to  arrive  at  the  end  of  the  glacier,  the 
Muir  Glacier  in  Alaska  moves  at  the  quick- 


GLACIERS  AND  AVALANCHES 


147 


ened  rate  of  seven  feet  a  day,  and  some  of 
the  glaciers  in  Greenland  during  the  summer 
months  exceed  fifty  feet  a  day. 

There  are  other  ways  in  which  the  glacier, 
though  an  ice-river  and  apparently  rigid,  re- 
sembles the  water  river.  For  instance,  the 
row  of  stakes  across  the  Mer  de  Glace  after  a 
few  days  showed  a  bend  down-stream,  indi- 
cating that  the  middle  of  the  glacier  moved 
faster  that  the  shore  sides  of  it.  Another  test 
showed  that  it  moved  faster  on  the  top  than 
on  the  bottom  and  faster  where  gorged  than 
where  spread  out.  Like  water,  the  ice-stream 
is  retarded  by  friction  and  advanced  by  vol- 
ume. It  is  sometimes  higher  in  the  middle 
than  on  the  sides,  and,  though  it  is  a  thin, 
sluggish  mass,  brittle  in  parts,  it  still  submits 
to  squeezing  and  bending,  and  even  oscillates 
from  side  to  side  somewhat  like  the  running 
river. 

Once  more,  the  glacier  registers  a  heavy 
fall  of  snow  almost  as  accurately  as  the  river 
a  flood  of  rain.  Down  at  its  valley  ending  it 
varies  in  length  from  year  to  year.  Last  year 
perhaps  it  advanced  far  down  into  the  valley 
because  of  a  heavy  snowfall  in  the  mountains, 
say,  a  hundred  years  ago.    This  year  perhaps 


Middle 
and  top 
movements 
of  glaciers. 


Oscillation. 


Registering 
of  snow- 
falls. 


148 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Crevasses. 


Crackling 
of  the  ice. 


Squeezing 
and  crush- 
ing. 


it  will  retreat  far  up  the  valley  because  the 
snowfall  of  the  following  year  was  a  light  one. 

The  surface  of  a  glacier  is  covered  with 
crevasses,  or  cracks  in  the  ice,  of  varying  width 
and  depth,  and  these  are  caused  by  the  fric- 
tion of  motion.  Along  the  shore  edges  mar- 
ginal crevasses,  extending  outward  into  the 
glacier,  are  produced  by  the  shore  masses  not 
being  able  to  keep  up  with  the  more  central 
masses.  A  split  or  crack  takes  place  at  right 
angles  to  the  stress.  The  midstream  end  of 
the  crevasse  moves  faster  than  the  shore  end, 
until,  after  many  weeks  perhaps,  the  whole 
crevasse  has  turned  about  and  is  now  almost 
parallel  to  the  shore  instead  of  at  right  angles 
to  it.  In  the  meantime  new  crevasses  extend- 
ing out  from  the  shore  cut  across  the  crevasses 
already  made  and  now  at  oblique  angles.  This 
process  keeps  repeating  itself  until  finally  the 
whole  shore  edge  of  the  glacier  looks  like  a 
piece  of  crackled  glass. 

Then  there  are  the  crevasses  produced  by 
the  top  moving  faster  than  the  bottom,  by 
squeezing  and  crushing,  and  by  the  inequalities 
of  the  bed.  When  a  water-river  goes  over  an 
abrupt  ledge  of  rock  it  breaks  into  a  rapid,  but 
when  an  ice-river  goes  over  the  same  kind  of 


GLACIERS  AND  AVALANCHES 


149 


"bumper"  it  splits  and  cracks  across  its  top, 
opens  in  seams,  but  still  holds  together  at  the 
bottom.  So  that,  all  told,  there  are  crevasses 
of  many  kinds — marginal,  radiating,  longitudi- 
nal, parallel — that  crisscross  and  cut  through 
each  other  in  a  very  confusing  way. 

The  tendency  of  all  these  huge  gaps  in  the 
ice  is  to  become  wider  and  deeper  as  they 
move  down  farther  into  the  valley.  Besides, 
they  are  opened  wider  by  the  melting  of  their 
sides,  by  rains,  by  dripping  waters  that  pour 
down  them.  Almost  every  glacier  gathers 
upon  its  back  more  or  less  debris  in  the  course 
of  its  many  years  of  slow  descent  into  the 
valley.  The  chief  accumulation  is  dirt,  sand, 
gravel,  and  boulders  that  drop  on  the  glac- 
ier's back  from  the  overhanging  rocks  of  the 
shore  or  are  rolled  down  from  the  neighbor- 
ing slopes.  These  are  dark  objects  upon  which 
the  sun's  rays  centre,  and  the  result  is  a  melt- 
ing of  the  ice  about  each  rock  and  a  sinking 
or  pitting  of  the  rock  itself  in  the  ice.  The 
drainage  from  these  various  pits  runs  to  the  low 
part  of  the  glacier's  back  and  forms  into  little 
lakes  on  the  ice — lakes  not  deep  but  sometimes 
over  a  hundred  feet  long,  as  that,  for  instance, 
of  the  Victoria  Glacier.    As  reflectors  of  the 


Opening 
of  the  crev- 
asses. 


Glacier 
gathering 
of  debris. 


Glacier 
lakes. 


150 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


white  peaks  of  the  neighboring  mountains  and 
of  the  blue  sky  they  are  astonishing,  while  in 
quality  of  blue  color  they  are  the  most  exqui- 
site of  all  the  mountain  mirrors. 

Each  one  of  these  miniature  lakes  (often 
seen  with  little  icebergs  in  them)  has  a  stream- 
let that  drains  it,  and  the  streamlet  runs  but 
a  very  short  distance  before  it  plunges  head- 
long down  a  crevasse.  This  makes  what  is 
called  a  well,  or,  from  its  churning  sound,  a 
moulin.  For  a  time,  perhaps,  the  bottom  of 
the  well  remains  firm  and  holds  the  water — 
the  most  beautiful  well  with  its  blue  depth 
and  its  blue  walls  of  ice  that  ever  snow  nymph 
or  Alpine  climber  looked  into — but  gradually 
the  falling  water  wears  through  the  bottom- 
ice  and  flows  away  with  a  gurgle  imder  the 
glacier  and  out  below  in  the  valley. 

The  accumulation  of  rocks  and  gravel  on 
the  back  of  the  glacier,  especially  on  the  por- 
tions along  the  shores,  is  gradually  carried 
down  by  the  movement  of  ice,  and  as  the 
ice  melts  they  are  deposited  in  ridges  parallel 
to  the  movement  of  the  glacier.  These  are 
called  lateral  moraines,  and  eventually,  by 
accumulation,  they  make  banks  or  sides  for 
the  glacier.    Sometimes  a  glacier  by  its  great 


GLACIERS  AND  AVALANCHES 


151 


weight  and  pushing  power  digs  up  the  gravel 
and  rock  in  its  own  bed  and  pushes  the  mass 
ahead  of  it  into  the  valley.  This  is  called 
a  frontal  moraine.  Frequently  the  drainage 
stream  coming  out  at  the  foot  of  the  glacier 
carries  with  it  enormous  accumulations  of 
dirt,  silt,  sand,  gravel.  This  glacier  wash  ex- 
tends perhaps  for  miles  down  the  valley  and 
is  known  as  the  valley  train.  Sometimes  the 
hole,  or  tunnel  through  the  ice  where  the 
stream  flows,  gets  clogged  with  its  own  debris 
and  the  deposit  finally  appears  as  a  long  ridge 
of  gravel  and  small  boulders.  This  is  called 
an  esker.  These  various  accumulations  are 
seen  about  the  glaciers  of  almost  all  the  lofty 
peaks,  but,  again,  possibly  the  Alps  show  them 
better  than  any  other  mountains — at  least 
people  see  them  there  as  they  do  not  else- 
where. 

When  the  glacier  ends  in  the  valley  the  ice, 
through  rottenness,  may  lose  much  of  its  beau- 
tiful blue  color,  though  where  a  stream  comes 
out  at  the  bottom  of  the  glacier  and  above  it 
is  an  arch  of  ice  the  blue  hue  may  still  hold 
strong.  The  Yoho  Glacier  in  the  Canadian 
Rockies  is  a  fine  illustration  of  this,  with  its 
three-hundred-foot  span  of  azure  vault  above 


Frontal 
moraines. 


Valley 
train  and 
esker. 


The  Yoho 
Glacier. 


152 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Its  famous 
arch. 


The  Taku 
Glacier. 


Face  wall 
of  the 
Taku 
Glacier. 


and  its  jade-hued  stream  below.  Several 
Swiss  glaciers  have  tunnels  cut  in  their  ends 
by  escaping  streams,  or  dug  out  by  man,  into 
which  the  tourist  is  taken  by  his  guide  to  see 
the  blue  of  the  ice — a  blue  quite  as  marvellous 
in  its  way  as  that  of  the  famous  grotto  at 
Capri.  But  none  of  these  tunnels  is  so  im- 
pressive as  the  Yoho  arch. 

The  color  of  the  ice,  the  fantastic  bridges 
occasionally  made  by  melting,  and  the  wells 
of  water  held  in  the  ice  are  about  the  only  at- 
tractive features  of  the  glacier.  Its  movements 
and  its  peculiar  formations  are  curious  scien- 
tifically, but  aesthetically  they  are  hardly  inspir- 
ing. To  this  last  statement,  however,  there 
are  exceptions.  In  Alaska,  two  miles  or  more 
to  the  south  of  the  Taku  Glacier,  is  an  enor- 
mous, flat-backed,  dirty  glacier  that  moves 
down  to  the  sea,  slowly  crumbling  and  melt- 
ing on  its  front  like  a  huge  sheet  of  rotten 
granite.  It  is  covered  with  gravel  and  boulders 
and  has  no  form  or  color  to  attract  one.  It  is 
interesting  only  on  account  of  its  size.  On  the 
contrary,  the  Taku  Glacier  near  it  has  size  and 
something  more.  It  is  some  seventy-five  miles 
long,  and  on  its  face  wall  where  it  breaks  into 
the  sea  it  must  be  three-quarters  of  a  mile  in 


GLACIERS  AND  AVALANCHES 


153 


breadth  and  probably  several  hundred  feet 
in  height.  If  the  Palisades  of  the  Hudson, 
where  they  break  abruptly  to  the  river,  were 
a  little  smaller  and  made  up  of  ice  they  would 
look  not  unlike  the  front  of  this  glacier.  The 
up-and-down  structure  of  the  Palisades  rock 
is  similar  to  the  ice  formation  of  the  glacier 
save  that  the  latter  is  finer,  more  flaky,  more 
crystalline. 

Imposing  and  beautiful  as  this  ice  structure 
is  in  form,  the  beauty  of  the  coloring  goes  far 
beyond  all  else.  One  never  sees,  in  any  of  the 
mountain  glaciers  of  the  temperate  zone,  such 
wonderful  blues  and  greens  as  those  in  the 
Alaskan  glaciers.  The  hue  is  exquisite,  jewel- 
like, and  in  depth  unsurpassed.  Even  when 
the  ice  breaks  off  in  huge  blocks  and  slowly 
floats  away  as  a  small  iceberg  the  splendid 
color  goes  with  it  and  is  reflected  in  the  wa- 
ter. The  Alaskan  glaciers  (they  are  only  the 
southern  tongues  of  the  great  arctic  ice-cap) 
are  not  mere  matters  of  wonder,  they  are 
things  of  beauty.  The  great  ones,  like  the 
Muir,  the  Pacific,  and  the  Valdez  Glaciers — 
the  latter  with  fifteen  miles  of  frontal  ice- 
cliffs — have  an  even  greater  beauty  of  color 
than  those  more  accessible. 


Alaskan 
glaciers. 


Great 
glaciers. 


154 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


All  glaciers  are  usually  seen  at  their  worst 
by  the  average  traveller.  By  that  I  mean  they 
are  seen  only  in  the  summer-time  and  at  their 
disintegrating  valley  end.  High  up  in  the 
mountain  ravine  the  glacier — snow,  ice,  and 
water — is  much  cleaner,  purer,  more  lovely  in 
color.  It  is  there  simply  a  frozen  mountain 
stream  and,  like  the  stream,  is  pure  at  its 
source  however  muddy  and  polluted  it  may 
be  at  its  exit  in  the  valley.  Grindelwald  Glac- 
ier and  the  ]\Ier  de  Glace  low  down  are, 
largely,  so  much  rotten  ice  mixed  with  stones 
and  dirt  being  slowly  pushed  into  a  valley.  It 
is  a  different  tale  higher  up.  And  different, 
too,  in  the  winter  months.  Then  the  stream 
running  away  at  the  bottom  of  the  glacier  is 
shrunken  in  size  but  clear,  the  glacier  itself 
is  muffled  with  snow,  the  snow-fields  are  glit- 
tering white,  and  perhaps  the  only  sound 
heard  is  the  faint  murmur  of  water  under  the 


snow. 


In  intensely  cold  weather  even  the  water- 
murmur  ceases,  there  is  contraction  and  con- 
gealing, with  little  crackling  sounds  occasion- 
ally running  through  the  glacier  mass.  The 
glitter  of  the  snoTs^akes  increases  the  feeling  of 
the  cold.    For  scores  of  years,  perhaps,  the 


GLACIERS  AND  AVALANCHES 


155 


water  has  been  lying  there  locked  up  in  snow 
and  ice  crystals.  The  little  crackling  sounds 
seem  almost  like  threads  of  pain  or  cries  of 
souls  in  bondage  to  be  free.  A  fanciful  soul 
might  think  them  calling: 

"  The  cold,  only  the  cold, 
Are  garbed  in  white  and  gray; 
The  cold,  only  the  cold. 
Shrink  from  themselves  away. 
Lord  of  the  sun,  shine  on  us  I 
Warm  us  with  heat  and  rain. 
Turn  us  back  into  water. 
Make  us  a  river  again ! '' 

The  slowness  of  the  glacier  moving  down  a 
mountain  valley  finds  its  striking  opposite  in 
the  swiftness  of  the  avalanche.  The  snow  that 
slips  and  slides  from  the  roof  of  a  house  is  a 
poor  miniature  likeness  of  the  iceslip  of  the 
mountains.  The  Alpine  avalanche  descends 
with  a  sound  and  fury  that  signify  danger 
and  destruction.  Again,  the  glissade  of  light 
snow  that  a  chamois's  hoof  may  start,  and  that 
slips  with  a  hissing  sound  down  some  steep 
slope,  may  knock  a  mountain-climber's  feet 
from  under  him  and  carry  him  over  a  preci- 
pice; but  usually  it  works  little  havoc  among 
the  trees  and  meadows.    It  goes  down  in  a 


Locked'Up 
ice  crys- 
tals. 


The 
avalanche. 


The  snow 
glissade. 


156 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


FoUotcing 
uell-vcorn 
slides. 


Falling 
avalanches. 


Dangerous 
snowslips. 


cloud  of  snow-dust  and  is  soon  over  with,  even 
if  it  is  not  dissipated  before  it  meets  with  the 
pines.  But  the  avalanche  of  ice,  the  huge 
snowslip,  and  the  landslip  are  very  different 
affairs. 

Avalanches  that  follow  well-wom  paths, 
slipping  down  narrow  ravines  with  much  noise 
and  enormous  puffs  of  snow,  again  do  little 
harm.  They  are  the  accumulations  of  ice 
and  snow  formed  in  the  shallow  catch-basins 
of  the  mountains  which  finally  become  over- 
loaded and  overweighted.  That  which  serves 
to  start  the  mass  downward  is  sun,  wind, 
and  rain.  These  causes  result  in  melting, 
which  in  turn  loosens  the  grip  of  the  mass  on 
the  mountain  side,  and  presently  the  whole 
sheet  is  slipping  do'^Ti  the  ravine  with  not  a 
tree  in  the  way  to  check  it.  In  the  summer 
months  the  sound  of  these  falling  avalanches 
can  be  heard  every  hour,  and  the  hours  of  the 
early  morning — the  moments  of  the  greatest 
night  cold — are  the  ones  when  the  sound  can 
be  heard  the  oftenest. 

The  dangerous  avalanches  come  usually  with 
heaw  snowfalls.  The  snow  is  then  heaped 
up  to  overflowing  along  slopes  and  in  shallow 
basins,  becomes  packed  and  heavy  with  thaw- 


GLACIERS  AND  AVALANCHES 


157 


ing  and  freezing,  and  finally  splits  across  and 
loosens  at  the  bottom.  A  slight  cause  may  then 
start  them — the  wind,  the  report  of  a  gun,  even 
the  bray  of  a  donkey,  according  to  the  tale 
of  Swiss  guides.  The  detached  part,  perhaps, 
rushes  down  over  some  huge  escarpment  or 
cliff,  where  it  is  flung  out  in  a  white  shower 
upon  the  air,  and  goes  thundering  down 
through  the  pines  into  the  lower  valley.  These 
snow  and  ice  avalanches  are  frequently  seen  on 
the  cliffs  of  the  Jungfrau  falling  in  a  veil  or 
cloud  of  snow.  Usually  they  are  dangerous 
slides  because  they  come  in  unexpected  places 
and  are  as  likely  to  bury  a  hut  or  village  as  a 
tree  or  a  boulder.  The  shock  of  their  fall,  with 
its  reverberation,  is  like  distant  thunder.  More- 
over, when  the  avalanche  is  very  heavy  with 
ice  it  is  accompanied  by  much  friction  on  the 
mountain  side  from  which  proceed  violent  whirl- 
winds of  eddying  snow.  These  winds  are  said 
to  be  violent  enough  at  times  to  twist  off  trees 
at  their  roots  and  to  be  stiQing  enough  to 
destroy  life.  But  it  would  seem  to  require 
great  weight  and  friction  to  produce  such  re- 
sults. 

The  most  dangerous  and  destructive  of  all 
the  avalanches  is  more  of  a  landslip  than  a 


Ice  ava- 
lanches of 
the  Jung- 
frau. 


Friction 
of  the  ava- 
lanche. 


158 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Landslips. 


Destructive 
nature  of 
landslips. 


Caucasian 
avalanches. 


snowslip.  By  alternate  freezing  and  thawing 
the  ground  beneath  an  ice-sheet  is  loosened, 
perhaps,  down  to  the  rock  strata,  and  pres- 
ently the  whole  mass  breaks  away,  carrying 
down  with  it  enormous  boulders,  trees,  fallen 
timber — in  fact,  an}i:hing  and  everything  mov- 
able. The  swiftness  and  violence  of  this  de- 
scent, the  bounding  and  crashing  of  the  huge 
boulders  against  the  rocks  of  the  slopes,*  the 
wild  leaps  in  air  over  cliffs  and  jutting  ledges 
are  marvellous  to  behold.  When  the  landslip 
finally  spreads  and  collapses  in  the  valley  it 
possibly  squeezes  out  of  existence  a  beautiful 
lake  or  fills  the  whole  valley  with  its  debris. 
Such  landslips  are  of  frequent  occurrence  in 
the  Alps,  and  the  untenanted  regions  of  the 
Rockies  and  Andes  still  bear  abundant  evi- 
dences, in  the  slashed  pathways  through  the 
timber,  of  similar  visitations.  In  the  Cauca- 
sus and  the  Himalayas  the  avalanches  are  far 
larger  and  more  violent  than  in  the  Alps,  be- 
cause of  the  greater  accumulation  of  snow 
and  ice;  but  they  do  less  damage  to  humanity 
and  are  not  frequently  seen  by  the  people  of 
the  Western  world. 

*  John  Muir  has  described  how  fire  is  struck  from  the 
contact  and  how  vividly  it  shows  in  the  night. 


GLACIEES  AND  AVALANCHES 


159 


Though  the  glaciers  and  the  avalanches  can- 
not be  said  to  work  any  direct  good  to  hu- 
manity or  the  valleys  into  which  they  fall, 
the  snows  and  ice  that  send  them  forth  are 
by  no  means  an  unalloyed  evil.  They  protect 
the  mountain-top  from  the  more  formidable 
erosion  by  wind  and  rain,  acting  as  a  cloak 
and  shield  against  the  elements.  To  be  sure, 
they  are  responsible  for  the  ultimate  pulling 
down  of  the  mountain  to  the  valley  and  plain, 
but  they  do  not  act  with  the  swiftness  of  rain 
and  wind  on  exposed  peaks.  The  wearing 
away  of  the  bare  mountains  below  the  snow- 
line is  greater  in  proportion. 

Nor  can  there  be  shown  anything  very  beau- 
tiful about  an  avalanche,  though  if  humanity 
knew  just  when  one  was  about  to  come  off 
there  is  no  fine  beauty  of  nature  they  would 
not  desert  to  see  it.  It  has  the  morbid  draw- 
ing quality  of  all  sudden  catastrophes.  The 
volcano,  the  earthquake,  the  cyclone,  the  ava- 
lanche are  all  of  them  catastrophes,  accidents, 
attempts  at  readjustment  of  equilibrium  or 
pressure.  They  represent  nature  not  "red 
in  tooth  and  claw"  so  much  as  nature  help- 
less against  the  operation  of  her  own  laws. 
But,  whatever  the  fury  of  the  elements  or 


Protection 

of  the 
snow. 


Drawing 
quality  of 
catastro- 
phes. 


160 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Readjust- 
ments of 
pressure. 


Nature's 
serenity. 


however  destructive  the  accidents,  they  seem 
of  only  local  importance — mere  surface  rip- 
ples. The  gates  of  brass  and  walls  of  jasper 
are  set  trembling  for  a  moment  but  the  great 
foundation  is  not  shaken.  The  globe  is  made 
of  sterner  stuff  than  that.  And  nature's  se- 
renity is  so  supreme  that  it  is  scarcely  ruf- 
fled, even  for  a  moment,  by  tidal  waves  and 
cyclones,  by  the  explosions  of  Krakatoas,  by 
the  thunders  of  avalanches  in  the  Himalayas. 
Heat,  light,  and  moisture  still  endure,  and 
working  together  they  soon  repair  any  dam- 
age, heal  over  any  break  or  abrasion  of  the 
surface.  The  livery  of  the  earth  is  being  con- 
tinually worn  and  torn,  but  the  great  shuttle 
is  forever  weaving  new  garments  and,  through 
change,  making  permanence  possible. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  SNOW-LINE 


High  above  the  timber-line,  above  the  bar- 
ren uplands,  comes  the  snow.  Its  beds  and 
drifts  and  glittering  caps  are  the  first  things 
to  catch  the  eye.  Down  on  the  plains  or  the 
prairies,  in  the  heat  of  summer,  one  looks 
up  to  see,  perhaps  many  miles  away,  those 
patches  of  white  against  the  blue,  those  cloud- 
like traceries  between  heaven  and  earth.  Pale 
patches  afar  off,  motionless,  shadowless,  color- 
less, almost  formless,  what  phantoms  of  the 
sky  they  are !  Yet  these  are  the  mighty  pin- 
nacles of  crystalline  rock  forced  upward  from 
the  bottom  of  the  earth's  rim,  these  are  the 
eternal  snows  that  endure  from  century  to 
century. 

The  snow-line  varies  with  the  latitude  of  the 
earth's  surface.  In  Greenland,  near  the  pole, 
it  is  at  the  sea-level;  in  the  Andes,  under  the 
equator,  it  is  thirteen  thousand  feet  or  more 
in  the  air.  It  varies  again  with  the  seasons, 
which  is,  in  its  final  result,  the  same  thing  as 
a  variation  of  latitude.  The  Alps  in  winter 
161 


Snow- 
capped 
mountains. 


Height  of 
the  snow- 
line. 


162 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Not  sharp- 
ly marked. 


Snow  in 
rock  fis- 
sures. 


have  a  snow-line  at  two  thousand  feet  and  in 
summer  at  about  nine  thousand.  The  Cana- 
dian Rockies  vary  but  little  from  this,  though 
the  snow-line  in  the  central  Rockies  is  higher 
during  the  summer  months. 

Just  where  the  snow-line  begins  or  ends  is 
not  so  sharply  indicated  as  in  the  case  of  the 
timber-line.  On  almost  every  high  mountain 
slope  there  are  gulches  and  ravines  where  the 
snow  packs  and  lies  the  w^hole  year  roimd, 
though  the  neighboring  slopes  may  be  bare  or 
covered  with  short  grass  and  flowers.  These 
patches  of  snow  are  usually  the  outliers  of 
the  great  fields  above  them  and  sometimes 
are  mere  extensions  down  from  them.  They 
often  gather  on  the  northern  sides  of  the 
mountains,  and  from  melting  and  thawing  or 
from  the  peculiar  forms  of  their  beds  they 
take  on  odd  appearances  when  seen  at  a  dis- 
tance. ^Miere  snow  has  drifted  and  settled 
in  a  wide  fissure  of  rock,  which  in  turn  has 
been  broken  by  a  cross-fissure  also  filled  with 
snow,  there  may  be  the  appearance  of  a  white 
cross  on  the  mountain  side  and  the  mountain 
itself  be  known  as  the  ^Mountain  of  the  Holy 
Cross.  Again,  on  rough  uplands  or  rock  faces 
patches  and  clots  of  snow  will  sometimes  ap- 


THE  SNOW-LINE 


163 


pear  in  a  broken  line  looking  like  an  Arabic 
or  Syriac  inscription  of  white  marble  inlaid 
upon  verd-antique  or  red  porphyry.  And,  still 
again,  one  sees  resemblances  in  these  lodge- 
ments of  the  lower  snows  to  human  profiles, 
to  witches,  animals,  ferns,  or  branches  of  trees 
— to  almost  anything  fantastic  or  grotesque. 

The  snow-drifts  in  the  upper  valleys  are 
not  clean-looking  when  seen  close  to  view, 
nor  are  they  very  white  seen  from  a  distance. 
More  or  less  debris  from  the  hills  and  dust 
from  the  air  have  made  them  far  from  im- 
maculate. Sometimes  they  are  little  more 
than  a  chocolate-colored  lump,  like  the  Nis- 
qually  Glacier  on  Mount  Rainier,  and  from 
them  may  run  a  sand-colored  stream.  The 
snows  on  the  southern  peaks  of  the  Coast 
Range  are  usually  of  this  character,  and 
through  melting  and  freezing  are  more  like 
heaps  of  rotten  ice  than  fallen  snow. 

But  not  so  with  the  snow  mantle  of  the  far 
upper  peaks  in  the  great  ranges.  Nothing  can 
exceed  it  hi  brilliancy.  It  is  the  whitest  thing 
on  the  earth,  save  only  the  sunshine  that 
makes  it  apparent  to  us.  The  minor  poets  have 
always  used  snow  as  a  symbol  of  purity,  and 
the  sentimentalists,  time  out  of  mind,  have 


Fantastic 
appear- 
ances. 


Gulch  snow 
dirty-look- 
ing. 


Purity  of 
mountain 
snow. 


164 


THE   MOUNTAIN 


Its  white- 
ness. 


The  word 
"white." 


written  about  things  "white  as  the  driven 
snow,"  but  it  is  to  be  feared  that  they  usually 
have  in  mind  the  snow  on  the  front  lawn  and 
the  gate-post — the  valley  snow.  Shakespeare, 
who  is  always  so  exactly  right  in  his  adjec- 
tives and  comparisons,  shows  a  wider  and  truer 
knowledge  when  he  makes  Ophelia  sing: 

*'\Miite  is  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow." 

The  mountain  snow  is  the  highest  and  the 
last  degree  of  whiteness.  Nothing  goes  beyond 
it  or  can  exceed  it. 

Yet  Shakespeare's  knowledge  of  snows  was, 
perhaps,  more  a  summary  of  universal  opinion 
than  any  first-hand  observation  or  perception. 
He  alone  said  it,  but  many  before  him  saw  it 
and  thought  it.    Perhaps  that  is  why  the  name 

white"  is  so  often  applied  to  the  snow-clad 
ranges.  Himalaya  means  "snowy,"  Lebanon 
is  "to  be  white,"  Alp  is  from  alb  (white); 
Mont  Blanc,  the  Sierra  Blanca,  the  White 
Mountains  all  mean  the  same  thing.  The 
whiteness  of  the  snows  upon  the  peaks  was, 
even  from  the  beginning,  so  impressive  that 
it  stamped  itself  upon  the  name.  \ATiy  not? 
Wliat  more  expressive  and  truthful  designa- 
tion could  be  given  them? 


THE  SNOW-LINE 


165 


An  explanation  of  the  intense  whiteness  of 
the  snow  was  offered  long  ago  by  Tyndall, 
and  it  has  been  generally  accepted  by  the 
scientific  world.  It  is,  in  brief,  that  the  white- 
ness is  caused  by  "  the  mixture  of  ice  particles 
[in  the  snow]  with  small  spaces  of  air."  That 
suggests  the  cause;  and  the  whiteness  of  sea- 
foam,  of  powdered  sugar,  of  powdered  granite, 
may  be  accounted  for  in  an  analogous  way. 
But  the  explanation  is  not  full  enough,  and, 
regarding  the  snow  in  particular,  I  shall  ven- 
ture a  further  statement  of  my  own,  set  forth 
some  years  ago.* 

Snow  is  crystalline  in  character,  and  when 
examined  under  the  microscope  each  separate 
flake  is  found  to  have  prismatic  edges  that 
disperse  the  colors  of  the  spectrum.  These 
colors  are  the  component  parts  of  light — in 
fact,  light  disintegrated.  The  countless  small 
prisms  scatter  the  light  into  colors,  but  the 
mass  of  the  colors  taken  together  reunite  into 
light.  It  was  demonstrated  in  painting  by 
the  so-called  impressionists,  thirty  or  more 
years  ago,  that  small  stipplings  of  red,  yellow, 
and  blue  placed  upon  canvas  close  together 
would  throw  out  more  light  than  a  pure  white 
*  Nature  for  Its  Ovm  Sake,  p.  106. 


Why  the 
snow  is 
white. 


Crystalline 
character 
of  flakes. 


166 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


The  pris- 
matic qual- 
ity. 


Luminos- 
ity of  the 
white. 


Phosphor- 
escence. 


ground  or  pure  white  paint.  In  other  words, 
light  recomposed  from  colors  is  stronger  than 
light  reflected  from  a  neutral  ground.  The 
foam  of  the  breaking  wave  is  glittering  white 
for  a  similar  reason.  It  is  filled  with  air 
bubbles  and  each  bubble,  again,  is  a  prism  of 
color.  The  multitude  of  colors  taken  in  a 
mass  recombine  into  white  light  like  the  prism 
edges  of  the  snow. 

The  crystallme  quality  of  the  flake — the  ice 
in  it — makes  possible  the  brilliancy  and  the 
dazzle  of  the  snow,  and  yet  the  sharp  contrast 
of  the  snow  with  its  darker  surroundings  may 
have  something  to  do  with  our  appreciation 
of  its  whiteness.  Alpine  travellers,  camped 
on  the  slopes  of  the  upper  peaks  at  night, 
have  insisted,  more  than  once,  that  there  was 
a  phosphorescence  in  the  mountain  snow,  so 
luminous  does  it  appear  imder  the  stars.  It 
is  brighter  than  the  sky  above  it  from  which 
emanates  whatever  light  may  be.  But  how 
can  a  reflection  be  brighter  than  its  source,  a 
satellite  more  brilliant  than  its  parent  sun? 
Phosphorescence  will  hardly  explain  the  lumi- 
nosity of  the  snow.  There  is  something  WTong 
in  the  observation  or  the  conclusion. 

It  is  a  fact  that  the  snow  is  brighter  than 


THE  SNOW-LINE 


167 


the  sky  even  at  midday,  but  it  is  not  a  fact 
that  it  is  brighter  than  the  light  that  comes 
through  the  sky.  We  are  misled  by  the  way 
we  look  at  it.  Gazing  upward  at  the  blue,  we 
inevitably  look  into  the  underneath  or  shad- 
owed side  of  every  air  particle,  whether  dust 
or  moisture  or  snowflake  or  mere  intangible 
vapor;  looking  downward,  we  just  as  inev- 
itably look  into  the  high,  reflected  lights  of 
every  snow  particle.  The  difference  is  simply 
between  light  cut  off  by  shadow  and  light 
sharply  reflected  and  enhanced  by  color  com- 
bination; but  that  is  practically  the  same  dif- 
ference that  there  is  between  the  sun  face  of  a 
mirror  and  the  shadowed  back  of  it.  It  is  the 
sun  face  that  we  are  seeing  in  the  snow,  the 
shadowed  back  that  we  are  seeing  in  the  sky. 
Hence  the  greater  apparent  luminosity  of  the 
snow. 

Almost  as  beautiful  as  the  light  of  the  snow 
is  the  shadow  cast  upon  it.  Taken  in  large 
areas,  nothing  could  be  more  delicate,  elusive, 
and  mysterious,  without  obscurity,  than  the 
pale  shadow  upon  a  snow  peak  like  that  of 
Mont  Blanc  or  Mount  Rainier  or  Popocatepetl. 
They  are  exquisite  in  their  transparency  and 
more  lovely  in  their  quality  of  color  than  any 


Light 

transmitted 
and  re- 
flected. 


Brilliancy 

of  the  re- 
flection. 


Shadows 
upon  snow. 


168 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


air  blue  of  green  valleys  or  rose  and  opal  of 
desert  peaks.  For  that  the  shadows  upon  snow- 
have  a  hue  is  now  no  longer  questioned.  The 
Alpine  climber  who  refuses  to  believe  the  vision 
of  the  impressionists,  and  who  gets  much  shal- 
low amusement  out  of  ridiculing  their  discov- 
eries and  practises,  can  hardly  lift  his  alpen- 
stock out  of  the  snow  without  noticing  that  the 
hole  left  by  it  has  blue  sides.  It  may  be  some 
time  before  he  thinks  of  looking  at  the  hole  at 
all,  but  when  he  does  he  sees  a  hue  that  looks 
somewhat  like  his  linen  when  it  has  been  over- 
blued  in  the  laundry.  That  convinces  him  of 
the  reality  of  the  blue  shadow  on  snow,  and 
he  then  goes  farther  than  he  should,  perhaps, 
by  supposing  that  it  is  always  and  ever  pres- 
ent. The  new  convert  is  usually  overzealous. 
But  the  blue  shadow  upon  snow  does  not 
appear  except  under  certain  conditions.  On 
cloudy  days  it  does  not  appear  at  all — some 
of  our  young  landscape-painters  to  the  con- 
trary notwithstanding.  It  requires,  first  of 
all,  a  clear  sky  overhead.  This  leads  one  to 
suspect  that  the  reflection  of  the  blue  sky  is 
thrown  on  the  snow  and  is  more  apparent  in 
the  shadow  than  in  the  light  because  it  is  not 
bleached  out  by  the  sun's  brilliancy.     Very 


THE  SNOW-LINE 


169 


likely  some  of  the  blue  in  the  shadow  comes 
from  the  sky  because,  even  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, before  the  sun  is  over  the  horizon,  some 
blue  will  show.  But  there  is  another,  a  con- 
tributing if  not  a  principal  cause  for  the  blue 
shadow. 

The  most  positive  blue  is  seen  only  when 
there  is  a  yellow  sun  in  the  heavens,  and  some- 
times when  there  is  a  cold  white  sun  the  blue 
in  the  shadow  is  not  apparent.  It  is  a  well- 
known  scientific  fact  that  colors  cast  their 
complementary  or  opposite  hue  in  shadow,  and 
the  complementary  hue  of  yellow  is  blue. 
Any  one  can  test  this  at  the  lunch-table  by 
using  a  white  table-cloth  instead  of  snow. 
With  the  ordinary  light  of  noonday  coming 
in  at  the  windows  there  will  be  no  blue  shad- 
ows cast  by  glass  and  cup  and  bowl;  but 
bring  in  a  lighted  candle,  and  the  yellow  flame 
will  instantly  color  the  shadows  an  exquisite 
blue. 

This  is  not,  however,  absolutely  conclusive 
proof.  If  you  leave  the  candle  burning  and 
close  the  shutters,  shutting  out  the  daylight, 
the  blue  shadow  will  as  instantly  disappear 
from  the  white  cloth.  The  dinner-table  at 
night  may  be  ablaze  with  yellow  candles,  but 


Sky  re- 
flection. 


Comple- 
mentary 
colors  in 
shadow. 


Effect  of 

yellow 

light. 


170 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


the  shadows  of  the  candlesticks  or  water- 
glasses  or  flowers  will  be  merely  a  colorless 
gray.  The  blue  sky,  or  the  peculiar  light 
conung  from  it,  certainly  has  something  to  do 
with  the  blue  shadow,  and  yet,  just  as  cer- 
tainly, that  in  itself  is  insufficient.  I  have  seen 
twelve  hours  of  blue  sky  over  Mont  Blanc 
that  produced  not  a  trace  of  blue  on  the  snow. 
The  shadows  of  the  snow-fields  were  dove- 
colored  or  a  silver-gray — beautiful  in  their 
tenderness  of  hue  as  in  their  depth  and  trans- 
parency, but  not  blue.  Again,  I  have  seen 
several  times,  with  a  red  sunset,  shadows  on 
snow  that  were  greenish.  The  controlling 
factor  seems  to  be  the  color  of  the  sunlight. 
The  combination  of  yellow  sunhght  with  blue 
sky,  or  the  light  from  it,  seems  to  be  neces- 
sary to  the  production  of  the  pale-blue  or 
lilac  or  purple  shadow. 

Reflection  of  the  sky,  however,  may  play 
some  part,  and  that  the  snow  is  often  a  re- 
flector we  know  from  some  more  positive 
manifestations.  The  abend gliihen,  or  alpen- 
glow,  that  comes  at  sunset  or  after  it,  and  is 
seen  on  all  snow  mountains  when  the  sky  is 
highly  colored,  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
a  reflection  of  the  red  or  pink  or  purple  in  the 


THE  SNOW-LINE 


171 


twilight  sky.  This  is  direct  reflection  having 
nothing  to  do  with  the  complementary  color. 
The  pink  or  purple  or  golden  hue  on  the  snow 
appears  in  the  light  and  not  in  the  shadow. 
It  is  similar  to  the  reflection  from  clear  ice, 
only  it  is  not  so  sharp  in  definition. 

The  bare  rock  of  mountain  peaks  will  often 
reflect  an  alpenglow  quite  as  effectively  and 
sometimes  more  delicately  than  snow.  The 
bald  top  of  Grayback  (about  11,600  feet), 
the  highest  mountain  in  southern  California, 
seen  from  Dry  Lake  on  the  desert  side, 
shows  in  the  summer  sunrise  first  a  pale  gray, 
then  a  delicate  silver  followed  by  salmon- 
pink,  then  a  pale  yellow  changing  into  gold. 
When  the  sun  rises  higher  the  rocks  become 
silver-gray  and  the  shadows  in  the  neighbor- 
ing gulches  and  canyons  become  a  gun-metal 
blue.  This  effect  is  practically  repeated  at 
sunset,  but  with  less  delicacy  and  variety  of 
hue — that  is,  seen  again  from  the  desert  side. 
Other  peaks  of  the  desert  are  more  vivid  in 
their  sunset  effects,  as  I  have  already  sug- 
gested, and  the  peaks  in  any  range  occasionally 
take  on  unexpected  colorings. 

All  these  colors  and  shadows  exhaust  one's 
adjectives   and    still   get   away    undescribed. 


Reflections 
from  rocky 
peaks. 


Desert 
peaks. 


172 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Their  delicate  beauty  is  more  like  the  tints  of 
the  eastern  sky  at  sunset.  Indeed,  so  subtle 
and  intangible  are  many  of  them  that  they 
are  seldom  observed  by  tourists  and  moun- 
tain-climbers *  The  bright  pink  or  gold  of 
an  alpenglow  seen  looking  up  to  some  peak 
from  a  darkened  valley  is,  of  course,  remarked 
because  it  is  so  pronounced,  but  the  blue  and 
dove-colored  shadows,  though  often  looked 
at,  are  seldom  seen.  Just  so  with  the  cold 
blues  and  purples  of  the  snow  crests  in  the 
early  morning  before  sunrise,  when  the  moun- 
tains are  shadowless  and  the  peaks  swim 
against  the  sky  like  northern  icebergs  against 
the  aurora.  After  sunrise,  if  the  sun  or  sky 
is  of  a  yellow  tone,  the  snow  beds  will  often 
reflect  it  in  a  pale  saffron  somewhat  after 
the  manner  of  the  evening  alpenglow.  The 
snow  is,  indeed,  as  capable  of  direct  reflected 

*  I  have  laboriously  gone  through  many  volumes  of 
Alpine  Club  publications,  with  tales  of  ascents  and 
descents,  in  the  hope  that  perhaps  some  of  the  climbers 
would  talk  about  something  besides  their  hair-breadth 
escapes  and  physical  worries,  but  I  have  had  small 
success  in  my  search.  The  average  ascent-maker  seems 
to  have  better  legs  than  eyes.  He  sees  httle  save  the 
man  ahead  of  him  and  the  peak  above  him.  He  is 
doing  a  stunt — not  seeing  a  vision.  People  like  John 
Muir  and  LesUe  Stephen  are  rare  in  mountain  litera- 
ture. 


THE  SNOW-LINE 


173 


color  in  the  high  light  as  of  complementary 
color  in  the  shadow.  They  may  both  appear 
at  one  and  the  same  time. 

"  Hues  in  the  light  and  hues  in  shadow  fading, 
Splendor  from  sunset  glows, 
Fields  of  blue  into  mauve  and  lilac  shading, 
Tintings  of  gold  and  rose. 

"Was  ever  known  such  light  by  hue  attended, 
Such  wondrous  radiant  light ! 
Was  ever  line  with  line  so  subtly  blended 
As  in  this  patterned  white !  '* 

Moonlight  among  the  snow  peaks  is  a  mar- 
vellous nocturne  in  blue  and  silver.  Every- 
thing has  the  soft  gleam  of  the  wan  white 
moon.  Even  the  stars  are  silvery  white  and 
glow  from  their  deep-sunk  beds  with  a  pre- 
ternatural splendor.  Against  the  blue,  against 
the  stars,  the  snow  peaks  appear  sharp-edged, 
clear-cut,  apparently  quite  flat.  At  times  they 
seem  to  shift  slightly,  especially  if  the  moon 
is  in  the  line  of  sight;  but  we  know  their  stead- 
fastness, their  absolute  repose.  "I  beheld  the 
mountains,  and  lo,  they  trembled,  and  all  the 
hills  moved  lightly."  It  was  a  vision  rather 
than  reality  that  the  prophet  beheld.  Yet  the 
shaking  atmosphere  is  at  times  responsible  for 


Color  in 
the  high 
light. 


Moonlight 
on  the  snow 
peaks. 


174 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


The  trem- 
bling air. 


Aloofness 
of  the 
peaks. 


Snow- 
storms on 
the  crests. 


a  "tremble,"  and  again,  at  times,  the  clouds 
"move  lightly"  and  give  the  appearance  of 
moving  peaks.  But  the  peaks  sway  as  the 
globe  sways,  not  otherwise.  To  ordinary  eyes 
they  stand  with  their  white  summits  thrown 
like  high  lights  on  the  blue,  the  embodiment 
of  stability,  permanence,  and  might.  No  other 
feature  of  the  globe  has  their  loftiness  and  their 
aloofness.  Silent  they  rest  in  the  thin  upper 
air,  above  the  noise  of  the  world,  above  the 
dust  of  conflict,  almost  above  the  very  ele- 
ments themselves. 

The  forms  of  snow  are  quite  as  wonderful 
as  their  colors  or  shadows.  And  the  snow 
is  always  forming  or  being  formed.  Great 
troops  of  clouds  trail  across  the  upper  sky 
and  let  down  sheets  and  whirls  of  white  flakes 
upon  peak  and  valley.  Far  into  the  timber- 
line,  even  in  summer,  the  soft  crystals  fall, 
until  the  pines  and  the  bare  uplands  above 
them  look  as  though  they  had  been  sprinkled 
with  powdered  sugar.  Higher  up,  where  there 
is  less  melting,  the  snow  falls  thicker  and  faster, 
forming  in  great,  cloud-like  banks  or  catching 
and  resting  fluffily  upon  vast  slopes  and  moun- 
tain-backs. When  the  snowfall  ceases  and 
the  sky  clears,  perhaps  the  wind  is  still  up, 


THE   SNOW-LINE 


175 


and  from  the  valley  the  mountains  seem  to 
be  smoking  or  steaming,  so  high  and  wild  are 
blown  the  clouds  of  snow.  They  are  tossed 
about  the  peaks,  swirled  around  the  stony 
needles,  huddled  in  patches  along  the  broken 
ledges,  banked  in  drifts  across  the  ravines  and 
crevasses.  The  fury  of  the  wind  around  the 
upper  peaks  makes  wild  confusion  among  the 
flying  snows. 

But  out  of  it  comes  incomparable  beauty. 
For  when  the  snow  is  blown  about  in  such 
furious  fashion  the  flakes  lose  their  sharp 
edges,  they  grow  smaller  and  rounder,  and 
begin  to  pack  closer  and  harder  as  they  drift. 
They  become 

"  The  fanned  snow 
That's  bolted  by  the  northern  blast  twice  o'er." 


As  a  result  we  have  drifts  and  banks  some- 
what like  those  of  wind-blown  sand  in  the 
desert,  only  more  delicate  and  perhaps  more 
fantastic.  And  of  huge  size  and  sweep.  The 
snowfall  on  St.  Gothard  is  between  forty  and 
fifty  feet  each  winter.  From  that  one  can 
imagine  that  the  drifts  must  be  as  deep  as  a 
small  valley  and  as  wide  as  the  shoulders  of 


Banks  and 
drifts. 


Bolted 
snow. 


Snowfall 
on  St. 
Gothard. 


176 


THE   MOUXTAIN 


the  peaks  are  apart.  At  times  crevasses,  ra- 
vines, and  whole  valleys  are  obliterated  by 
drifts,  and  the  only  way  one  recognizes  a  val- 
ley is,  perhaps,  by  a  graceful  downward  droop 
of  the  snow  between  peak  and  peak. 

These  rolls  of  the  deep  drifts  are  supremely 
beautiful  as  line  and  form,  marvellous  be- 
cause apparently  designless  patterns  of  nature; 
and  yet  just  as  perfect  after  their  kind  as 
the  starred  sno^^-flake  and  the  colored  crystal. 
Ruskin,  to  whom  is  due  perhaps  even  greater 
credit  for  what  he  has  pointed  out  in  nature 
than  in  art,  has  written  rapturously  and  de- 
lightfully about  them. 

"In  the  range  of  inorganic  nature  I  doubt 
if  any  object  can  be  found  more  perfectly 
beautiful  than  a  fresh,  deep  snow-drift  seen 
under  warm  light.  Its  curves  are  of  incon- 
ceivable perfection  and  changefulness,  its  sur- 
face and  transparency  alike  exquisite,  its  light 
and  shade  of  inexhaustible  variety  and  inim- 
itable finish,  the  shadows  sharp,  pale,  and  of 
heavenly  color,  the  reflected  lights  intense  and 
multitudinous,  and  mingled  with  the  sweet  oc- 
currences of  transmitted  light." 

This  is  not  only  enthusiasm  but  truthful 
observation;  and  it  might  be  noted  in  passing 


THE   SNOW-LINE 


177 


that  so  far  back  as  1843,  before  ever  the  im- 
pressionist and  his  blue  shadow  were  heard  of, 
Ruskin  had  observed  that  the  shadows  on 
snow  were  of  "heavenly  color" — that  is,  blue. 
Only  a  few  years  later,  in  Massachusetts,  the 
not  too  observant  Lowell  noticed  the  blue 
shadow  also,  and  wrote  about  it.*  The  im- 
pressionist did  not  invent  it;  he  did  not  see  it 
until  others  had  called  attention  to  it.  The 
old  masters  of  Flanders,  such  as  Thierry  Bouts, 
continually  painted  blue  shadows  in  the  folds 
of  white  robes.  The  knowledge  (and  occa- 
sionally the  practise)  was  not  unknown  to  the 
Renaissance  Italians. 

After  a  heavy  snowfall  in  the  mountains 
it  not  infrequently  happens  that  the  tem- 
perature rises  and  a  south  wind  or  (in  the 
upper  Rockies)  a  chinook  blows  for  several 
days.  The  snow  melts  on  the  surface,  becomes 
hard  by  freezing  at  night,  and  gathers  to  itself 
a  shine  and  glisten  under  sunlight  and  moon- 
light. The  festoons  that  hang  down  from  the 
sharp  peaks  and  the  cornices  of  snow  that 
extend  out  over  the  edges  of  the  precipices 
are  now  congealed  in  graceful  forms,  and 
perhaps  the  cornices  are  fringed  by  drooping 
*  See  his  essay,  A  Good  Word  for  Winter. 


Ruskin 
on  blue 
shadows. 


Old  mas- 
ters knew 
the  blue 
shadow. 


Melting 
and  freez- 
ing of  snow 
crust. 


178 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


icicles  that  have  a  beryl-green  or  sapphire- 
blue  color  in  the  sunlight.  The  upright  walls 
of  the  peaks  may  again  be  hung  with  crys- 
tal pendants  and  the  whole  mountain  range 
glitter  like  spun  glass.  The  condition  of  the 
snow  is  now  favorable  to  the  most  gorgeous 
effects  of  the  alpenglow,  and  this  is  the  mo- 
ment when  the  snow  splendor  is  fairly  dazzling. 
Not  Mont  Blanc  alone  but  every  high  moun- 
tain becomes,  at  such  times,  a  monarch 

"  With  a  diadem  of  snow." 

The  crown  of  glistening  crystal  is,  indeed,  the 
supreme  touch  of  heavenly  light  upon  "the 
snow-shining  mountains." 

And  yet  in  severe  weather,  in  very  cold 
climates — in  the  high  points  of  the  eastern 
Rockies,  for  instance — there  is  still  a  further 
enhancement  of  this  mountain  beauty  by  an 
air  that  is  sometimes  filled  with  hoarfrost  or 
ice-dust.  Every  particle  of  moisture  is  frozen 
out  of  the  air  by  the  intense  cold — ^is  tiu^ed 
into  tiny  ice  spicules  that  float  in  the  air  and 
glitter  like  so  much  diamond-dust.  More- 
over, the  crystals  in  the  air  are  occasionally 
illumined  in  the  early  morning  not  from  one 
sun  but  three!     For  in  cold  climates,  with 


THE   SNOW-LINE 


179 


snow  on  the  ground,  the  sun  often  comes  over 
the  eastern  horizon  flanked  by  sun-dogs  (par- 
helia), one  on  either  side,  and  each  one  almost 
as  brilliant  in  light  as  the  central  orb.  Then 
there  is  the  glisten  of  a  fairy  world — the  daz- 
zle of  a  world  all  splendor.  The  glitter  from 
the  million  patterns  of  ice  tracery  and  snow 
crystals  is  bewildering,  almost  blinding. 

Up  through  this  drifting  crystalline  atmos- 
phere lift  the  white  pinnacles  and  minarets 
of  the  peaks.  Standing  along  the  edge  of  the 
great  Blue  Unknown,  they  seem  like  watch- 
towers  between  heaven  and  earth.  What  a 
wonder-pattern  of  white  upon  blue !  What 
do  they  mean?  Nothing  that  we  can  know 
with  any  certainty.  What  do  they  look  ?  The 
most  splendid  vision  that  human  eyes  have 
ever  seen. 


Sun-dogs. 


The  lifting 
pinnacles. 


CHAPTER  X 
SPINES  AND  WEDGES 

The  snow  would  seem  to  be  the  last  word 
about  mountain  height.  But  there  are  still 
needle-pointed  rocks  beyond  it,  splintered 
peaks  that  thrust  through  the  white  cloak 
and  lift  into  the  sky. 

**  Where  the  arching  Bowl  of  Blue 
Into  outer  space  breaks  through. 
Where  the  Milky  Way  is  strewn 
And  the  night  is  starry  noon, 
There  the  splintered  peaks  aspire. 
Lifting  higher,  ever  higher. 
Into  ragged  shaft  and  wedge 
Far  beyond  the  round  world's  edge." 

The  highest  needles  and  the  sharpest  crests 
are  not  snow-tipped.  Such  rocky  points  are 
too  perpendicular  to  allow  lodgement  for  banks 
and  drifts,  and  they  usually  remain  bare  as 
an  obelisk  or  the  apex  of  a  pyramid.  They 
are,  indeed,  nature's  tall  shafts  set  up  as  land- 
marks in  the  wilderness,  and  they  tell  a  his- 
tory just  as  truly,  and  far  more  weighty,  than, 
180 


SPINES  AND  WEDGES 


181 


say,  the  rock-hewn  monuments  along  the  Nile. 
To  understand  them  we  shall  have  to  look  up 
their  origin  in  geology. 

In  the  original  laying  down  of  the  rock  beds 
the  normal  inclination  must  have  been  hori- 
zontal or  possibly  sloping;  and  the  beds  must 
have  originated  and  been  laid  down  by  and 
through  certain  elements,  such  as  fire,  water, 
and  wind,  and  solidified  by  compression. 

(a)  The  igneous  or  fire  rocks  were  made  by 
lavas  intruded  through  seams,  or  by  overflows 
of  lava  from  volcanoes,  or  possibly  by  prox- 
imity to  certain  underlying  molten  masses  of 
the  earth's  interior.  The  fusion  of  the  dif- 
ferent layers  by  these  fire  streams  produced 
further  lavas,  tufas,  glassy  stones  like  obsidian, 
porphyries,  granites,  greenstones,  basalts,  and 
trap  rocks  in  general.  Molten  rock  is  dif- 
ferent from  molten  metal  in  that  the  latter 
returns  to  itself  after  cooling,  but  the  fusion 
of  rocks  produces  a  solution  of  one  silicate  in 
another.  Each  compound  crystallizes  out  as 
it  cools  until  the  whole  is  solidified.  Liquid 
rock  is  like  glass  or  furnace  slag  and  crystal- 
lizes in  substantially  the  same  way.  Generally 
speaking,  then,  we  may  say  that  the  igneous 
rocks  are  unstratified  crystalline  rocks. 


Inclina- 
tion of 
rock  beds. 


Igneous  or 
fire  rocks. 


Crystalline 
results. 


182 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


(6)  The  aqueous  or  water  rocks  are  of  sec- 
ondary origin — that  is  to  say,  they  are  formed 
from  the  grit  and  fry  of  the  original  mantle 
rock.  These  minute  wearings  are  finally  car- 
ried by  wind  and  water  do\sTi  to  the  sea  or 
to  the  lakes,  the  plains,  or  the  deep  valleys 
where  they  form  in  beds.  Lying  in  these  beds 
under  great  compression,  they  finally  become 
cemented  in  compact  strata  and  make  up 
shales,  sandstones,  pudding-stones,  and  the 
like.  Lime,  magnesia,  soda,  potash  leached 
out  of  the  surface  rocks  are  also  carried  by 
the  rivers  dowTi  to  the  sea,  where  the  lime  is 
extracted  to  make  the  bones  and  shells  of  sea 
life.  The  bones  are  finally  deposited  on  the 
sea  floor  in  great  quantities  and  there  help 
to  make  up  a  lime  mud  which  eventually  be- 
comes limestone.  Generally  speaking,  then,  it 
may  be  said  that  the  aqueous  or  water  rocks 
are  not  crystalline  but  sedimentary  in  struc- 
ture and  stratified  in  form. 

(c)  There  are  soft  rocks  formed  also  by 
winds  (dunes  and  loesses),  by  glaciers  (moraines 
and  till),  and  by  organic  deposits  (coal,  peat, 
lignite) ;  but  these  do  not  figure  in  the  creation 
of  mountain  peaks  and  may  be  dismissed  from 
present  consideration.    There  is,  however,  still 


SPINES  AND   WEDGES 


183 


a  third  kind  of  rock  to  be  spoken  of,  pro- 
duced by  what  is  called  metamorphism — that 
is,  by  a  refusion  and  remaking  of  igneous  and 
aqueous  rocks  that  have  been  crushed,  broken, 
or  disintegrated.  The  muds  that  become 
shales  and  limestones,  the  gravels  that  become 
conglomerates,  the  volcanic  blocks  and  coarse 
fragments  that  become  agglomerates  are  met- 
amorphic  rocks  in  one  sense  but  not  in  the 
sense  we  are  for  the  moment  to  consider. 

When  sedimentary  and  igneous  rocks  are 
heaved  up  by  a  folding  of  the  earth^s  crust 
there  is  tremendous  thrust  and  friction,  and 
these,  in  conjunction  with  moisture,  result  in 
high  temperature.  The  heat  is  so  great  that 
it  seems  at  times  as  though  actual  melting 
of  the  rock  were  possible  or  even  probable. 
With  the  heat  a  change  or  transformation  in 
the  character  of  the  rock  takes  place.  From 
sedimentary  or  conglomerate  form  it  turns 
into  schistose  or  crystalline  form.  The  sand- 
stones and  granites  pass  into  quartzites  and 
gneisses,  the  shales  become  mica  schists,  the 
limestones  turn  into  marbles.  Sometimes  the 
transformation  is  so  complete  that  the  original 
character  of  the  rock  cannot  be  made  out. 
This  is  the  process  called  in  geology  regional 


MetamoT' 
phism. 


Friction 
and  heat. 


Transfor- 
mation of 
rocks. 


184 


THE   MOUNTAIN 


metamorphism,  and  the  result  of  it  is  the 
schistose  or  crystalHne  rocks  that  appear  in 
the  needles  and  crests  of  the  highest  mountain 
peaks.  How  or  why  they  appear  there  k 
something  that  requires  a  further  paragraph 
of  explanation. 

When  the  earth's  surface  is  contracted  by 
the  cooling  of  the  globe  a  lateral  thrust  re- 
sults which  squeezes  the  surface  into  wrinkles 
or  folds.  When  the  thrust  is  slight  the  surface 
merely  bends  up  in  a  quarter  or  half  circle 
arch.  This  is  called  an  anticline,  and  the 
crust-waves  may  appear  somewhat  like  the 
long  ground-swells  of  the  Pacific  Ocean,  only 
much  larger.  ^Vhen  the  curve  is  downward 
instead  of  upward  it  is  called  a  syncline,  and 
the  resemblance  is  nearer,  perhaps,  to  the  hol- 
low of  the  wave  than  the  arched  top.  If  the 
thrust  is  increased  the  folding  is  closer  and  the 
arches  are  narrower.  There  is  a  bend  both  up 
and  down,  with  high,  sharply  buckled  crests 
and  deep,  narrow  hollows.  This  is  called  an 
isocline.  Increase  the  lateral  thrust  still  more 
and  the  folding  becomes  narrowed  at  the  bot- 
tom and  flared  out  at  the  top  like  a  fan.  This 
is  called  an  anticlinorium.  It  reveals  the  most 
violently  bent  and  broken  folding  of  all,  and 


SPINES  AND   WEDGES 


185 


results  not  only  in  a  snapping  of  the  arches 
at  the  top  but  oftentimes  in  overfolding  or  the 
thrust  of  one  fold  over  another  in  a  hopeless 
confusion  of  splintered  edges.  Aside  from  these 
there  are  many  complex  forms  of  foldings  to  be 
found  in  every  mountain  range,  but  the  ones 
described  are  suflBcient  for  our  understanding 
of  the  different  kinds  of  mountain  rocks,  how 
they  were  formed,  and  how  they  were  placed 
in  the  mountains — some  in  hidden  beds,  some 
in  huge  supporting  buttresses,  and  some  in 
exposed  peaks. 

If,  by  way  of  illustration,  we  now  examine 
in  profile  the  foot-hills  of  a  mountain  range, 
or  the  lesser  ranges  themselves,  we  shall  find, 
generally  speaking,  that  the  lateral  thrust  of 
the  earth's  folding  has,  perhaps,  not  been 
great,  that  the  bending  has  been  possibly  of 
an  anticlinal  or  synclinal  nature,  that  there 
has  been  no  great  heat,  and,  consequently,  no 
marked  metamorphism  or  change  in  the  rock 
structure.  The  beds  bent  upward  or  down- 
ward are  of  sedimental  or  aqueous  origin  and 
are  usually  shales,  sandstones,  limestones,  or 
conglomerates,  the  breaks  in  the  strata  are 
not  violent,  and  there  are  no  needles  or  crests 
of  importance. 


Complex 
foldings  of 
crust. 


Foot-hills 
as  illustra- 
tion. 


186 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Outlying 
mountains. 


Ragged 
edges  of 
beds. 


Wearing  of 
the  edges. 


The  outlying  mountains  that  range  them- 
selves along  or  about  the  high  central  peaks  we 
shall  find  fairly  good  examples  of  the  isoclinal 
bending  of  the  crust.  The  thrust  has  been 
strong  enough,  perhaps,  to  produce  in  spots 
metamorphic  rocks,  to  change  some  of  the  sed- 
imentary beds  into  gneisses  and  schists,  while 
leaving  other  portions,  like  the  limestones,  un- 
changed. The  folding  has  been  severe  enough 
to  snap  some  of  the  arches  at  the  top  and  leave 
the  ragged  edges  of  beds  and  layers  exposed 
to  view.  These  edges  frequently  appear  on 
the  summits  of  the  secondary  mountains  in 
sharp  ridges,  in  fantastic  parapets  or  towers  or 
domes  of  rock;  but  owing  to  their  mixed  na- 
ture— their  half-fired  quality — they  are  not 
hard  enough  to  endure  sharp-edged  for  any 
length  of  time.  The  forces  of  erosion  wear 
them  smooth  or  honeycomb  and  crumble  them, 
or  they  are  covered  by  lichens  so  that  the 
dome  soon  sinks  into  a  knob  and  the  crest 
becomes  merely  a  smooth  shoulder.  This  is, 
however,  a  general  statement  subject  to  ex- 
ceptions, for,  as  every  one  knows,  some  of  the 
now  lower  mountains  are  still  bristling  with 
sharp  schistose  or  crystalline  ridges. 

The  very  highest  peaks  are  made  up  of  the 


SPINES  AND  WEDGES 


187 


hardest  rocks  of  all.  The  violence  of  the  fan- 
fold  not  only  generates  great  heat  and  changes 
the  rocks  of  whatever  name  and  nature  into 
crystalline  forms,  but  it  forces  the  arches  high 
up  in  the  air — high  enough  to  make  the  top- 
most peaks  of  the  Rockies,  the  Alps,  or  the 
Himalayas.  Further,  the  enormous  thrust  of 
the  folding  results  not  only  in  the  stratified 
beds  being  bent  to  the  perpendicular  and 
raised  on  end  like  planks  placed  upright 
against  a  wall,  but  in  the  tops  of  the  arches 
being  broken  through  and  the  ragged  edges 
of  the  beds  pushed  up  in  spines  and  needles. 
This  is  the  climax  in  mountain-building  and 
means  the  hardest  rocks  on  the  highest  peaks 
splintered  into  fantastic  minarets  by  the  wild- 
est waving  of  the  earth's  strata. 

The  needle-points,  such  as  the  Aiguille  du 
Dru,  the  Aiguille  des  Petits  Charmoz  near 
Chamonix,  the  pinnacle  of  the  Weisshorn, 
the  shaft  of  the  Matterhorn,  are  accounted 
for  by  the  upright  position  into  which  the 
strata  have  been  lifted.  The  gable-shaped 
peaks  and  the  ragged  crest  of  the  Schreckhorn 
or  the  ridge  of  the  Wetterhorn  are  produced 
by  portions  of  the  strata  having  been  broken 
out  by  the  winds  and  rains  so  that  what  re- 


The  fan- 
fold  in  the 
highest 
peaks. 


Wild  wav- 
ing of  the 
strata. 


Alpine 
needles. 


188 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


mains  appears  often  as  a  p^Tamid  or  a  wedge 
or  a  ridge.*  The  most  amazing  illustration 
of  this  is  the  shaft  of  the  Matterhorn,  though 
just  how  or  why  it  happened  to  be  left  in 
its  present  fantastic  form  has  not  as  yet  been 
satisfactorily  explained. 

Of  course  the  outhned  view  of  a  mountain 
range  against  the  sky  will  not  always  disclose 
the  p\Tamid  or  the  wedge  or  the  needle.  At 
Belluno,  looking  west  at  sunset,  the  mountain 
peaks  look  like  thunder-heads  in  the  sky  or 
mounting  sea  waves.  The  Dolomite  peaks  of 
the  Schlern  and  Rosengarten,  looking  east 
from  Botzen,  or  the  Organ  Mountains  in  New- 
Mexico  have  needles  thrust  up  that  resemble 
the  pipes  of  an  old-fashioned  organ;  and  the 
Canadian  Rockies  make  up  a  wild  expanse  of 
snapped-off  bends  and  bows  with  brittle  edges 
— countless  peaks  with  sloping  backs  on  the 
west  and  sharp,  broken  precipices  on  the  east. 

*  The  Alps  present  the  most  violent  folding  and 
huddling  in  the  crust  materials  of  any  of  the  famous 
mountain  ridges.  In  the  crushing  process  not  only 
metamorphic  rocks  have  been  created  but  the  older 
igneous  rocks  of  the  crust  lying  under  the  sedimental 
deposits  have  been  forced  up  to  the  surface,  pro- 
truded, splintered  into  needles,  and  in  many  cases 
torn  off  and  pushed  for  many  miles  over  and  above 
the  tops  of  the  younger  sedimentary  rocks. 


SPINES   AND   WEDGES 


189 


The  main  sierra  running  through  Mexico,  or 
the  Carpathians  seen  from  Sinaya,  have  a 
similar  variety  of  form.  But  under  all  the 
variety  runs  the  principle  of  the  needle  or 
the  wedge  or  the  ridge — the  rock  bed  tilted 
up  on  end  or  at  a  sharp  angle,  with  its  once 
arched  top  shattered  and  its  rugged,  crystal- 
line layers  forced  outward  or  upward  in  the 
air. 

Many  of  these  splintered  spires  and  needles 
have  survived  and  still  exist  because  of  the 
hard,  gneissic  quality  of  their  rock.  Crystals 
cannot  be  disintegrated  like  sandstones  nor 
crushed  so  easily  as  conglomerates.  Never- 
theless, they  are,  in  the  long  account  of  time, 
worn  do^Ti  in  spite  of  their  adamantine  char- 
acter. Heat  and  cold  expand  and  contract 
them;  wind  and  rain  wash  and  wear  them. 
At  a  distance,  looking  up  at  the  peaks  from 
the  valley,  the  edges  appear  as  keen  as  a  knife- 
blade  and  as  pointed  as  a  pike;  but  when  you 
climb  up  to  them  and  see  them  close  to  view 
they  are  almost  always  rounded.  They  are 
all  of  them  "  weathered,"  and  some  of  them  are 
entirely  covered  with  gray  and  black  lichens. 

But  even  the  lichens  do  not  hide  the  youth- 
fulness  of  these  peaks.     They  have  survived 


190 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Youthful 
ranges. 


Local  color 
of  the 
peaks. 


through  their  crystalline  hardness;  and  yet 
it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  they  have  not 
been  exposed  for  long.  It  was  only  geological 
yesterday  that  the  Himalayas,  the  Alps,  the 
Andes,  and  the  Rockies  were  bom.  Indeed, 
the  geologists  think  that  they  have  not  yet 
run  their  course,  not  yet  come  to  maturity, 
and  that  they  are  still  rising,  folding,  and 
forming.  Their  birth-time  was  not  earlier 
than  the  Tertiary  Period.  The  inference  from 
that  is  plainly  that  the  sharpest  needles  and 
the  most  angular  crests  are  the  youngest 
and  the  latest  of  the  broken  foldings  and  the 
splintered  strata. 

So  young  are  they  that  they  have  not  yet 
had  time  to  gather  much  local  color.  The 
lichens  lend  a  tone  but  not  a  hue,  sometimes 
the  oxidizing  of  iron  or  copper  gives  them  an 
orange  stain;  but  as  a  rule  the  local  coloring 
of  the  high  mountain  peak  is  merely  a  dark 
gray  or  a  purplish  brown  with  occasionally 
a  tiQge  of  silver  or  saffron.  Sometimes,  again, 
there  are  tops  and  towers  of  a  chalky  hue  that 
throw  off  beautiful  pale  tints  of  heliotrope  and 
lilac;  but,  once  more,  the  local  color  of  the 
peaks  is  a  negligible  quantity  in  that  high  field 
where  even  the  blue  sky  sometimes  holds  by 


SPINES  AND  WEDGES 


191 


its  value  as  illumination  rather  than  by  its 
splendid  hue. 

This  is  not,  however,  true  of  the  peaks  when 
they  are  reflecting  color  and  light  from  the 
sky  or  air.  The  bare  porphyry  shafts  of  the 
Colorado  Desert  are  almost  unbelievable  in 
their  fire  reflections.  At  sunset  the  peak  of 
Baboquivari,  along  the  Arizona  border,  is  often 
a  hot-iron  red,  and  the  needles  of  the  Mexican 
mountains  in  summer  assume  strange  gamuts 
of  reds,  pinks,  golds,  and  lilacs.  I  have  never 
seen  anything  so  intense  in  the  Rockies,  the 
Alps,  or  the  Caucasus.  In  the  Dolomites,  seen 
from  San  Martino,  the  spines  and  needles  are 
at  times  golden  or  pale  yellow  or  gray-silver 
under  sunlight,  but  the  color  is  far  from  bril- 
liant. When  powdered  with  newly  fallen  snow 
there  is  produced  an  effect  of  pale  orange  and 
silver  on  white,  and  in  the  morning  this  effect 
may  be  enhanced  by  wandering  patches  of  mist 
which,  shot  through  by  the  rising  sun,  are  like 
golden  fleece.  The  effect  of  snow  swirls  and 
drifting  snow  around  the  needles  under  morn- 
ing light  is  very  similar  and  even  more  won- 
derful in  luminosity  and  glittering  splendor. 

The  best  "view"  of  the  high  peaks  is  always 
obtained  from  the  valley  looking  up.     It  is 


Reflected 
color  of 
bare  rock. 


Dolomite 
spines. 


Snow 
swirls 
about 
spines. 


192 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


VaUey 
view  of 
mountains. 


Mass  and 
grandeur. 


View  from 
the  top. 


usually  an  imposing  view  and  often  a  spec- 
tacular one.  The  lift  and  the  bulk  of  the 
peaks  give  them  sublimity;  their  repose  and 
serenity  lend  them  dignity  and  majesty.  They 
have  not  the  graceful  contour  of  the  lower  lulls 
and  do  not  please  the  eye  by  one  line  flowing 
into  another  in  uninterrupted  sequence.  In 
fact,  the  saw-toothed  effect  of  a  lofty  range 
seen  in  profile  may  be  anything  but  agreeable 
to  the  sensitive  retina.  But  all  that  is  swept 
away  by  overwhelming  mass  and  grandeur. 
We  are  face  to  face  with  the  crumpled  crust 
of  the  earth — no  more  than  a  mere  ^Teck  of 
matter — but  it  is  upon  such  an  enormous  scale 
that  even  in  its  ruin  and  confusion  it  is  won- 
derful to  behold.  The  Canyon  of  the  Colorado 
is  just  as  much  of  a  wreck — a  great  scratch  in 
the  crust — but  again  we  have  sublimity  as  a 
result  of  its  tremendous  expanse. 

The  view  from  the  top  of  the  mountains — 
the  look  across  many  peaks  in  panoramic 
arrangement — is  the  one  the  Alpine  tourists 
usually  extol  as  "magnificent"  and  "unsur- 
passed." So  it  is.  You  are  on  the  roof  of 
the  world,  with  snowy  gables,  chimneys,  and 
spires  all  about  you.  It  is  usually  a  tumbled 
and  tossed  landscape,  "  ringed  and  roofed  in  az- 


SPINES  AND  WEDGES 


193 


ure, "  with  huge  fields  of  snow  and  shoulders  of 
ice,  and  looks  more  like  a  frozen  polar  sea  cov- 
ered with  icebergs  than  any  portion  of  the 
earth.  Such  a  scene  meets  the  eye  from  the 
top  of  Monte  Rosa,  the  Gorner  Grat,  or  even 
the  Righi.  The  look  over  the  tops  of  the 
Canadian  Rockies  from  Mount  Balfour  shows 
perhaps  less  abruptness  in  single  heights  or 
depths  but  is  not  the  less  a  wild  and  waved 
landscape.  The  whole  region  is  an  uplifted 
pene-plain  of  sedimentary  rock  fifty  thousand 
feet  thick  or  more.  It  was  originally  folded 
and  faulted  by  a  squeeze  from  the  west  which 
was  resisted  by  the  underlying  strata  of  the  flat 
plains  to  the  east.  In  its  upward  bend  it  broke 
into  troughs  with  open  crevices  which  widened 
as  they  became  the  beds  of  drainage  streams. 
The  upheaval  seems  to  have  been  evenly  felt, 
judging  from  the  rather  uniform  height  of 
the  remaining  peaks.  The  view  from  Rogers 
Peak  in  the  Selkirks  is  about  the  same  as  re- 
gards the  uniform  height  of  the  peaks. 

All  these  views  seen  from  high  peaks  when 
the  snow  is  lying  thick  and  heavy  bear 
some  resemblance  to  the  south-pole  ice  barrier 
as  photographed  by  Lieutenant  Shackleton. 
They  are  a  little  disturbing  in  form  because 


From 

Monte 

Rosa. 


The 

Canadian 

Rockies. 


Chaos 
of  snow- 
fields. 


194 


THE   MOUNTAIN 


of  their  chaos;  they  are  bewildering  in  their 
light  because  of  their  snow  mantles;  and,  as 
for  their  color,  no  one  looks  for  it  or  expects 
to  find  it.  Intense  light  and  disrupted  form 
are  too  prominent  for  anything  like  color  to 
attract  attention. 

The  view  looking  down  from  the  peaks  is 
again  one  that  is  popular  with  the  casual 
climber,  perhaps  because  it  is  more  or  less  of 
a  distortion.  It  is  somewhat  like  seeing  the 
earth  from  a  balloon.  Light,  shade,  color, 
perspective  are  all  reversed  if  not  destroyed. 
Topographically,  it  may  be  interesting  from  a 
great  height  to  trace  the  twist  and  bend  of 
the  valleys  and  to  watch  the  glittering  thread 
of  a  river  winding  dowTiward  to  the  sea,  as, 
geologically,  it  may  prove  instructive  to  note 
the  different  river  benches  and  the  part  played 
by  erosion  in  their  making;  but,  picturesquely, 
the  looking  doT\Tiward  is  something  of  a  freak. 
It  amuses  for  a  time  but  does  not  satisfy,  be- 
cause it  quarrels  with  all  our  usual  experience 
in  landscape.  Perhaps,  if  the  climber  w^ould 
look  up  instead  of  down,  he  might  see  some- 
thing of  unusual  beauty  in  a  shade  of  blue 
bordering  upon  purple;  but  unfortunately  he 
seldom  looks  that  way. 


SPINES  AND  WEDGES 


195 


One  wonders  at  times  why  the  alpinist 
undergoes  fatigue  and  cold,  besides  risk  to  life 
and  limb,  in  climbing  among  the  lofty  peaks. 
He  talks  of  glorious  views,  fine  air,  and  a  fine 
physical  feeling;  but  at  heart,  perhaps,  he  likes 
better  the  name  and  fame  of  having  "done'' 
such  and  such  peaks  and  having  stood  on 
dizzy  heights  where  only  the  Whympers  have 
set  foot.  The  bare  needles  of  the  lofty  ranges 
are  not  spots  that  any  one  may  reach  in  a  day's 
journey.  They  are  accessible  only  to  the  very 
few,  and  the  alpinist  is  one  of  the  elect.  It 
took  a  Hannibal,  a  Caesar,  a  Napoleon,  to 
cross  the  lower  Alpine  passes,  and  the  great 
Alexander  was  turned  back  from  India  by 
lesser  difficulties.  The  conquerors  who  rise  to 
mountain  heights  must  be  the  strong  of  heart. 

But,  whatever  the  difficulties,  in  its  last  anal- 
ysis the  present-day  climbing  of  perpendicular 
walls  of  rock,  the  zigzagging  in  chimneys,  the 
drag  by  ropes,  the  crawl  by  ledges  and  niches, 
the  creeping  along  knife-blade  edges  are  merely 
Alpine  Club  stunts  in  an  old  game  of  "follow 
my  leader."  It  is  the  dare  of  it  that  makes  up 
the  game,  and  the  beauty  of  the  peaks  and 
skies  forms  small  part  of  it. 

On  the  contrary,  there  have  been  many  soli- 


196 


THE   MOUNTAIN 


Solitary 
mountain- 
climbers. 


Attraction 
of  remote- 
ness. 


Longing 
for  the 
mountains. 


tary  mountain-climbers  who  have  never  talked 
their  ambitions  and  never  published  their 
achievements  in  club-books — people  who,  per- 
haps, are  not  overfond  of  the  view,  care  little 
about  the  physical  exercise,  and  care  nothing 
at  all  about  the  game  or  the  fame  of  it.  Why 
should  such  people  climb?  Can  it  be  that 
they  are  drawn  to  the  lofty  heights  by  their 
wildness,  their  aloofness,  their  loneliness  ?  No 
one  owns  the  pinnacled  peaks;  no  one  lives 
up  there.  The  mountain-tops,  whether  spired 
or  domed,  are  out  of  civilization,  out  of  the 
world.  Is  there  attraction  in  this  remoteness 
— a  fascination  in  this  outward  look  into  the 
wilderness  of  space? 

The  true  mountaineer  is  like  the  sailor. 
Neither  of  them  can  say  why  it  is  he  is 
drawn  to  the  great  open  spaces.  The  longing 
for  the  sea  comes  to  the  man  in  the  street  and 
he  leaves  family,  friends,  and  fortune,  to  take 
ship  and  toss  about  in  stormy  waters.  He 
cannot  tell  you  why  he  loves  the  element,  but 
the  lure  of  it  is  more  to  him  than  home.  So 
it  is  with  the  mountaineer.  At  times  a  rest- 
lessness and  a  longing  for  the  mountains  come 
to  him  and  he  must  climb — the  higher  the  bet- 
ter— and  be  alone  with  the  elements.    Perhaps 


SPINES  AND  WEDGES 


197 


it  is  the  same  longing  for  altitude  and  aloof- 
ness that  comes  to  the  eagles  when  at  times 
they  soar  far  up  against  the  blue,  wheeling  for 
hours  aimlessly  in  space. 

This  is  something  different  in  impulse  from 
the  misanthropic  and  the  temporarily  world- 
weary  who  like  the  hills  or  the  mountains  be- 
cause they  can  get  away  from  the  mob.  Bis- 
marck used  to  declare  that  he  was  never  so 
happy  as  in  the  mountains  alone  with  his  dogs; 
which,  perhaps,  meant  merely  that  the  human 
problem  was  for  the  time  abandoned.  The 
misanthrope,  and  even  at  times  the  healthy- 
minded,  may,  however,  take  another  point  of 
view  and  see  matters  in  a  more  serious  light. 
For  to  be  high  up  on  the  snowy  summit  of 
the  world  is  to  turn  existence  back  to  the  first 
days  of  creation.  You  stand  with  earth  below 
you,  sky  above  you,  light  around  you.  The 
primitive  elements  alone  command  you.  All 
else  vanishes.  Time  goes  out  and  space  comes 
in.  The  life  down  below  becomes  trivial  and 
inconsequential.  Humanity,  if  thought  about 
at  all,  seems  a  blemish,  and  civilization  a  blun- 
der. The  wealth,  the  fame,  the  art  you  have 
so  long  striven  for,  and  perhaps  attained,  how 
useless  they  appear  I    The  knowledge  so  criss- 


Bismarck 
in  the 
mountains. 


The  snowy 
summit  of 
the  world. 


198 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Emotional 
feeling. 


crossed  with  error,  the  mentality  of  man  so 
worthless  in  a  crisis,  how  empty  they  seem 
amid  these  mysteries  and  vastnesses !  Think- 
ing is  reduced  to  a  mere  vague  wonder  and 
emotional  feeling  is  all  that  remains  to  us.* 

How  often  that  feeling  in  the  presence  of 
the  great  elements  has  expressed  itself  in  a 
mist  of  tears  and  a  choking  in  the  throat! 
The  high-blown  pride  of  the  human  breaks 
under  him  just  here.  His  reason  deserts  him 
and  the  religion  of  the  Garden  comes  back  to 
him.  There  in  the  high  mountains,  which 
were  God's  first  temples  more  truly  than  the 
groves,  he  forgets  to  pray  for  himself,  but  has 
rapturous  praise  for  the  Power  that  planned 
and  the  Hand  that  wrought.  He  is  back  to 
a  primitive  faith  from  which  he  never  should 
have  wandered. 

*  BjTon  declared  that  to  him  the  mountams  were 
"a  feeUng, "  while  Addison  thought  them  merely 
"irregular  misshapen  scenes."  What  strangely  op- 
posed view-points!  Addison  is  almost  incomprehen- 
sible, but  how  readily  one  understands  Byron!  Hear 
him,  in  Don  Juan,  declaring: 

"My  altars  are  the  mountain  and  the  ocean, 
Earth,   air,  stars— all   that   springs   from  the   great 

WTiole 
TMio  hath  produced  and  will  receive  the  soul." 


CHAPTER  XI 


BLUE   AND   SILVER 

The  blue  of  heaven  I  What  a  mighty  depth 
it  is !  You  rise  to  it  as  you  creep  up  the  moun- 
tain side,  but  it  keeps  receding  from  you,  grow- 
ing deeper  instead  of  hghter.  If  you  could  rise 
high  enough,  say  fifty  miles,  it  would  finally 
disappear  in  purple  darkness — in  a  black- 
ness of  space  set  with  blue  stars  that  never 
twinkle  and  a  violet-blue  sun  the  rays  of 
which  would  cut  like  search-lights  through  the 
dark.  The  upper  space  must  be  a  void  of 
darkness,  for  there  is  no  tangible  atmosphere 
there  to  break  the  light  and  make  it  apparent. 
Science  has  long  been  quite  sure  that  the  blue 
sky  does  not  extend  upward  unendingly  but, 
on  the  contrary,  is  only  a  circle  of  air  or  a 
translucent  envelope  that  surrounds  the  globe 
and  diffuses  the  sunlight.  Fifty  or  a  hundred 
miles  is  supposed  to  be  the  limit  of  its  height 
or  depth. 

This  is  something  of  a  guess,  to  be  sure, 
and  yet  it  admits  of  some  practical  demonstra- 
tion in  the  mountains  themselves.  Seen  from 
199 


Darkness 
of  space. 


Limit  of 
the  sky. 


200 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


The  chang- 
ing blue. 


At  (he  top 
of  Mount 
McKinley. 


The  sun's 
rays. 


the  valley,  the  sky  looks  pale  blue  and  the  sun 
may  have  a  tinge  of  topaz  about  it,  but  when 
we  rise  ten  thousand  feet  on  the  mountain 
side  the  sun  begins  to  look  white  and  the  sky 
has  darkened  in  its  blue.  At  fifteen  thousand 
feet — at  the  top  of  Mont  Blanc — the  sky  is 
the  color  of  a  dark-blue  gentian  with  a  purple 
note  in  it,  while  the  sun  has  the  violet  tinge  of 
an  electric  arc  lamp.  From  the  top  of  Mount 
McKinley  (20,000  feet)  the  Rev.  Dr.  Hudson 
Stuck  noted  that  the  sky  "  took  a  blue  so  deep 
that  none  of  us  had  ever  gazed  upon  a  midday 
sky  like  it  before.  It  was  a  deep,  rich,  lustrous, 
transparent  blue,  as  dark  as  a  Prussian  blue, 
but  intensely  blue;  a  hue  so  strange,  so  in- 
creasingly impressive,  that  to  one  at  least  it 
'seemed  like  special  news  of  God.'  .  .  .  We 
first  noticed  the  darkening  tint  of  the  upper 
sky  in  the  Grand  Basin,  and  it  deepened  as 
we  rose." 

At  such  a  height  as  Mount  ]\IcKinley  the  air 
becomes  thin  and  the  diffusion  of  the  sun's 
rays  grows  less  in  so  marked  a  degree  that  the 
sky  fits  up  close  around  the  disk.  The  stars, 
too,  that  from  the  valley  go  out  with  the 
morning  light,  are  now  sometimes  visible  at 
noonday.     The  air  is  not  dense  enough  to 


BLUE  AND   SILVER 


201 


hide  them.  As  for  the  sun-shafts,  they  are  so 
straight  and  strong  that  the  climber  suffers 
from  sunburn  on  face  and  hands,  and  needs  his 
smoked  glasses  to  temper  the  dazzling  reflec- 
tion from  the  snow. 

Even  from  lesser  mountam  heights,  from, 
say,  Mount  WTiitney  or  Mount  Rainier,  what 
an  inverted  bowl  of  blue  is  suspended  above  us 
in  space !  No  precious  porcelain  out  of  China 
or  Japan  ever  had  such  quality  of  color.  It 
is  not  a  tone  under  a  glaze,  but  a  vast  depth — 
a  sea  of  ether  in  which  the  eye  wanders  and 
loses  itself  in  a  mystery  of  infinite  hue.  As 
you  look  into  it  how  empty  seem  all  the  for- 
mulas of  color  harmony  devised  by  art  and 
artists!  That  famous  palette  of  Titian's  which 
has  so  racked  the  modern  brain  with  its  com- 
position, how  petty  it  seems  beside  this  vast 
blue  monotone  of  the  upper  sky ! — almost  as 
petty  as  the  Greek  line  of  the  human  form 
compared  with  the  rugged  outline  of  the 
Matterhorn  or  the  great  swing  of  the  horizon 
circle. 

This  cold  blue  color-scheme  of  the  high 
mountain  sky  does  not  resemble  an>i:hing 
seen  in  the  arctic  regions,  except  superficially. 
At  the  poles  there  is  an  atmosphere  laden 


Mount 
Whitney 
and  Mount 
Rainier. 


Depth  of 
the  blue. 


202 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


with  moisture  which  at  times  produces  vivid 
reds  and  yellows,  but  over  Monte  Rosa  the 
thinness  of  the  air  usually  limits  color  to  the 
blues  and  violets  at  the  far  end  of  the  spectrum. 
In  the  morning,  when  the  sun  comes  up,  there 
is  usually  little  warm  coloring  resulting  from  it. 
The  tip  of  the  Matterhorn,  perhaps,  reflects  a 
blue-silver,  the  Lyskamm  and  the  Breithorn  an- 
swer a  few  minutes  later  in  tones  of  violet,  the 
snow-fields  put  on  a  violet  glow;  but  there  is 
no  riot  of  colors.  Even  at  sunset  the  cold 
hues  predominate,  though  occasionally  the  sky 
warms  up  with  golden  fire  along  the  western 
horizon  and  the  blue  is  green-tinged. 

Our  point  of  view  usually  determines  the 
appearance  of  the  sky.  The  twilight  that 
looks  so  gorgeous  in  hue  from  the  plains  or 
the  valley  may  appear  less  gorgeous  when 
seen  from  the  high  peak.  The  warm  red  or 
yellow  notes  are  made  possible  by  the  thick 
layer  of  atmosphere  lying  low  down  along  the 
earth  through  which  the  sun's  rays  pass  and 
are  dispersed  into  color.  The  layers  of  air 
above  the  mountain-tops  are  very  thin  and  dis- 
perse color  meagrely,  though  occasionally  one 
sees  orange  at  dawn  and  fire-reds  at  sunset. 

This  thinness  of  the  upper  air  is  marked 


BLUE  AND   SILVER 


203 


when  one  is  camped  at  night,  perhaps,  in  an 
amphitheatre  of  snow  near  the  peak.  The 
sky  may  be  clear  and  the  moon  at  the  full, 
but  you  may  have  to  look  about  the  sky  to 
find  the  latter.  Seen  from  the  high  moun- 
tains, it  seems  small,  and  though  very  bright  it 
has  little  diffusion,  and  perhaps  less  intensity 
than  the  stars.  Of  course,  it  is  not  orange- 
hued  nor  yellow,  as  we  see  it  from  the  valley, 
but  very  white,  without  a  halo,  and  without 
rainbow  rings.  It  is  never  spectacular,  never 
romantic,  never  even  commanding  in  presence 
or  light  seen  from  the  high  mountains.  As 
for  the  stars,  they  are  set  in  constellation 
patterns  of  great  brightness  thrown  upon  a 
blue-black  ground.  Rising  toward  them  the 
violet-tinged  peaks  lift  upward  and  upward 
and  the  world  below  is  lost  in  a  vast  depth  of 
mystery  and  gloom.  You  are  camped  half- 
way between  heaven  and  earth  and  are,  per- 
haps, awed  by  the  unreal  character  of  the 
light  or  overcome  by  the  immensity  of  the 
solitude. 

A  strange  feeling  comes  to  one  up  there  with 
the  peaks  and  the  planets — a  feeling  and  a 
realization,  perhaps,  of 

"The  silence  that  is  in  the  starry  sky.'* 


The  moon. 


The  stars. 


204 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Poise  of  the 
universe. 


It  comes  with  the  thought  of  the  great  poise 
and  restraint  of  the  universe  notwithstand- 
ing its  ceaseless  activities.  The  stars  in  their 
courses,  the  planets  in  their  orbits,  the  suns 
with  their  spinning  satellites,  how  silently, 
easily,  and  yet  inevitably  they  swing!  What 
a  mighty  system  set  in  motion  apparently 
with  no  effort  and  kept  in  motion  with  no 
friction  and  no  sound!  The  stillness  is  so 
intense  that  it  may  be  heard  in  a  hum  of  dis- 
tance— a  hum  that  comes  out  of  the  unfathom- 
able silence  of  space.  With  such  an  immensity 
spread  out  before  one,  what  wonder  that  the 
imagination  breaks  doTMi  and  feeling  becomes 
tense — even  uncomfortable ! 

Coldness  of  light  and  color  is  the  usual 
feature  of  the  upper  peaks  under  a  clear  sky; 
but  the  mountains  are  great  condensers  of 
moisture-laden  air,  great  cloud-makers,  great 
rain-makers.  ]\Iuch  of  the  time  the  snow 
peaks  are  shrouded  in  warm  gray-and-silver 
clouds,  the  blue  sky  is  shut  out,  and  frequently 
the  whole  range  will  be  lost  to  view  in  showers 
of  falling  rain  or  waving  sheets  of  snow.  A 
local  storm  often  takes  place  below  the  snow- 
line while  the  peaks  above  the  clouds  are 
still  glittering  under  the  sun  or  the  stars ;  but 
a  wide-spread  rain  of  several  days'  duration 


BLUE  AND  SILVER 


205 


brings  with  it  a  mantle  of  silver-gray  that  en- 
velops the  whole  range.  This  mantle  is  often 
very  beautiful  in  color,  but  is  usually  unseen 
or  at  least  disregarded  by  almost  all  manner 
of  men. 

A  night  sky  over  a  high  mountain  range  is 
usually  quite  free  from  clouds.  With  the  set- 
ting sun  the  troops  of  cumulus  and  nimbus 
sink  down,  disintegrate,  disappear;  but  by  nine 
or  ten  of  the  morning,  when  the  sun  warms 
the  air  in  the  valleys  and  the  currents  have 
begun  to  rise  along  the  mountain  side,  the 
clouds  reappear  and  begin  forming,  sometimes 
along  the  slopes  and  sometimes  out  in  the 
open  spaces.  At  the  start  the  cloud  is  very 
diaphanous,  but  it  soon  gathers  and  grows  on 
its  top  and  sides  until  it  becomes  so  large  that 
it,  perhaps,  breaks  in  two,  and  then  each  half 
continues  to  grow  on  its  own  account.  After  a 
time  the  top  of  each  cloud  has  a  heaped-up  look, 
the  bottom  of  it  a  flat,  sawed-off  appearance, 
and  the  sides  of  it  are  marked  by  masses  of 
light  and  shade.  The  cloud  grows  on  its  top 
and  loses,  by  evaporation,  at  its  base.  The 
flat  look  of  the  base  is  the  line  of  evaporation.* 

*  For  further  explanation  of  why  clouds  float  and 
how  they  are  formed,  see  Nature  for  Its  Own  Sake, 
Chapter  IV. 


Clear  skies 
at  night. 


Rising  and 

forming 

clouds. 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


The  forming  and  coloring  of  these  clouds  in 
the  morning  sunlight  are  seen  to  great  advan- 
tage in  a  moist  climate  like  that  of  the  Alaska 
coast,  where  the  mountains  come  down  to  the 
sea  and  the  ranges  are  surrounded  by  sea  an*.  I 
have  never  seen  such  superb  masses  of  clouds, 
sun-shot  and  blue-shadowed,  drifting  in  the 
valleys  of  the  high  mountains,  as  along  the 
coast  of  Alaska.  In  the  morning  there  are 
tones  of  heliotrope,  lilac,  and  violet,  making 
a  cool  opalescence;  in  the  evening  the  whole 
mountain  range  as  well  as  the  clouds  are 
splashed  with  yellow,  gold,  scarlet,  and  tem- 
pered by  purples  into  a  warm  iridescence. 
Nothing  in  the  tropics  or  the  ^Mexican  moun- 
tains can  surpass  the  splendid  color  effects  of 
these  clouds.  They  are  only  ordinary  cmnulus 
clouds,  but  they  declare  the  glory  of  God  just 
as  truly  as  the  firmament  showeth  his  handi- 
work. 

As  for  the  appearance  and  the  unusual  forms 
that  clouds  sometimes  take  in  the  mountains, 
they  are  easily  explained.  In  the  deep  moun- 
tain vaUeys  the  moist  air  becomes  heated  in 
the  early  morning  and  begins  rising.  With 
every  three  hundred  feet  of  rise  the  tempera- 
ture sinks  one  degree,  which  means  that  at 


BLUE  AND  SILVER 


207 


fifteen  thousand  feet  the  temperature  would 
be  fifty  degrees  lower  than  at  one  foot.  At  a 
temperature  of  60°  Fahrenheit,  which  is  about 
that  of  the  average  mountain  valley,  each 
cubic  foot  of  air  is  able  to  hold  in  invisible 
form  5.87  grains  of  vapor.  As  this  cubic  foot 
of  air  rises  it  grows  colder  and  its  ability  to 
hold  invisible  vapor  grows  less.  When  its 
temperature  is  reduced  to  32°  Fahrenheit,  and 
it  is  perhaps  ten  thousand  feet  up,  it  is  able 
to  hold  only  2.37  grains  of  invisible  vapor. 
The  difference,  then,  between  5.87  grains  and 
2.37  grains  is  crowded  out,  condensed  out,  of 
each  cubic  foot  in  the  visible  form  of  mist  or 
cloud. 

This  active  principle  of  condensation  ex- 
plains readily  enough  how  and  why  warm 
currents  of  air  creeping  up  the  mountain  sides, 
or  rising  straight  up  from  the  valleys,  change 
into  clouds  when  they  reach  the  cold  upper 
regions.  It  also  explains  the  unusual  ap- 
pearance of  certain  clouds  that  form  and 
hang  about  or  above  mountain  peaks — so- 
called  "bonnet"  clouds.  The  cone-shaped  top 
of  Popocatepetl  almost  always  has  a  ring 
about  it  or  cap  of  cloud  above  it.  The 
winds  are  always  breaking  it  and  blowing  it 


Condensa- 
tion. 


Bonnet 
clouds. 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


away  on  the  sides  and  top,  but  the  cloud  is 
always  being  renewed  by  the  ascending  cur- 
rents of  warm,  moist  air  so  that  it  looks 
stationary  and  intact.  At  night,  when  the 
ascending  currents  of  air  fail,  the  cloud  sinks 
down  and  disappears.  This  type  of  cloud  is 
seen  in  connection  with  many  high  peaks. 

Somewhat  similar  to  the  "bonnet"  cloud  is 
the  so-called  "banner"  cloud.  It  is  formed 
by  similar  ascending  air  currents  which  per- 
haps rise  along  the  warm,  sunny  side  of  a 
mountain  and  meet  with  no  cold  air  until  they 
pass  out  at  the  top  from  the  protection  of  the 
peak.  They  are  then  struck  by  the  cold  wind, 
are  condensed  instantly  into  cloud,  and  are  al- 
most as  instantly  blown  away  by  the  winds, 
save  in  the  lee  of  the  peak,  where  there  is  pro- 
tection. They  gather  under  this  lee  in  the 
shape  of  a  burgee,  or  pointed  flag,  and,  seen 
from  below,  seem  to  wave  out  from  the  peak 
like  a  streamer  or  banner.  This  cloud  is  often 
attached  to  sharp-pointed  peaks  and  seems 
with  some  of  them  a  permanent  affair.  But 
it  is,  like  other  clouds,  continually  forming 
and  breaking  and  having  its  edges  cut  by  the 
winds.  The  banner  portion  of  it  is  merely 
the  protected  residue. 


BLUE  AND  SILVER 


209 


The  warmer  the  weather,  and  the  higher  up 
the  region  of  cold,  the  higher  will  the  valley 
air  rise  before  it  condenses.  As  a  result,  in 
summer  weather  or  upon  hot  days  at  any 
time,  condensation  will  take  place  only  when 
the  air  currents  are,  perhaps,  many  thousands 
of  feet  above  the  valleys — thousands  of  feet 
above  the  peaks.  The  cloud  form  then  pro- 
duced is  the  towering  cumulus,  or  what  we 
call  the  heap-cloud.  It  has  a  flat  base  and 
rises  in  billowy  rolls  straight  upward  for  per- 
haps twenty  thousand  feet.  It  is  usually  seen 
in  the  afternoon  and  is  extremely  brilliant  in 
light,  is  tinged  by  various  hues  as  the  sun 
declines,  and,  again,  has  various  colors  in  its 
shadows.  There  may  be  many  of  these  heap- 
clouds  cast  in  the  form  of  a  snowy  mountain 
range,  and  when  seen  above  the  mountains 
themselves  they  produce  the  fairy  illusion  of 
mountains  upon  mountains,  peaks  upon  peaks, 
rising  upward  into  the  blue.  They  seem  to 
lift  and  loom[^unendingly,  and,  though  as  un- 
substantial as  the  baseless  fabric  of  a  dream, 
how  beautiful  they  are  to  watch  in  their  vari- 
ous forms,  lights,  and  colors ! 

The  air  currents  from  the  valley  may  rise 
still  higher  than  the  tops  of  the  towering 


Rising 
warm  air. 


Heap- 
clouds. 


Sky 
illusions. 


210 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


cumulus,  and  may  carry  a  less  percentage  of 
moisture  from  having  had  some  of  it  squeezed 
out  by  the  chilling  of  the  temperature  on  the 
way  up.  The  remainder  may  reach  thirty 
or  forty  thousand  feet  above  the  valley  and 
then  condense  into  the  form  of  the  stratus, 
or  the  long,  flat  cloud  that  sometimes  stretches 
across  the  heavens.  It  is  a  frail,  diaphanous 
cloud  and  takes  many  horizontal  or  flattened 
forms,  but  is  usually  not  so  marked  or  notice- 
able in  light  and  color  as  the  heap-cloud. 

Still  higher  than  this  the  air  currents  may 
rise  in  invisible  form,  having  still  less  percent- 
age of  moisture  in  their  composition,  until  they 
reach  a  zero  temperature,  perhaps  sixty  or 
eighty  thousand  feet  in  air.  Then  when  they 
condense  it  is  not  into  vapor  but  into  ice 
spicules  or  ice-dust — vapor  frozen  into  tiny 
particles  that  float  in  the  same  manner  as 
hoarfrost.  The  forms  these  highest  clouds, 
the  cirri,  take  are  varied,  and  because  of  their 
icy  make-up  they  are  very  brilliant  in  color 
and  light,  very  translucent,  very  diaphanous. 
Their  appearance  is  never  quite  the  same  from 
hour  to  hour. 

"  At  dawn  a  mist  of  sapphire  faintly  glowing. 
At  noon  a  wave  of  white, 


BLUE  AND   SILVER 


211 


With  curling  edges  into  plumage  growing 
And  spreading  wings  of  flight. 

"  At  dusk  a  flame  above  the  mountains  gleaming, 
— The  dead  Day's  funeral  pyre — 
A  scarlet  banner  on  the  blue  vault  streaming, 
Or  golden  hair  afire. 

"At  night  a  mesh  of  bright  auroral  veiling, 
Waving  in  broken  bars, 
A  nebula  across  the  sky  depth  trailing 
Tangled  with  silver  stars." 

Radiant  and  glowing  when  seen  from  the 
valley,  the  cirri  are  sometimes  more  piercing 
in  light,  more  scintillant  in  color,  when  seen 
from  the  mountain's  top.  From  either  point 
of  view  they  are  the  glory  of  the  upper  sky — 
beacon  lights  that  seem  to  beckon  on  to  un- 
known regions  of  space. 

Quite  different  from  the  stratus  or  the  cir- 
rus is  the  nimbus — the  true  rain-cloud.  It 
may  be  formed  in  the  same  way  as  the  others, 
but  from  oversaturation  may  reach  its  precip- 
itation-point when  only  a  few  thousand  feet 
from  the  valley  and  send  forth  torrents  of 
rain.  Again,  when  a  sirocco  blows  across  the 
Mediterranean  and  is  tilted  up  from  the  plains 
of  Lombardy  toward  the  snowy  Alps,  or  when 


The  glory 
of  the  up- 
per sky. 


The  nim- 
bus or 
rain-cloud. 


212 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Chinook 
winds. 


Falling 
rain  in  the 
valley. 


Storm 
in  the 
mountains. 


a  warm  chinook  wind,  moisture-laden  from  the 
Pacific,  creeps  up  through  the  passes  of  the 
Canadian  Rockies,  there  is  condensation  into 
nimbus  clouds  ail  along  the  line  of  cold  con- 
tact and  a  heav}'  precipitation  of  rain  is  not 
the  unusual  result.  The  clouds  themselves 
are  not  brilliant  in  color  or  light  and  are  usu- 
ally seen  as  a  huge,  overspread  veil  of  gray. 

Rain  in  the  mountains  is  not  very  different 
from  rain  elsewhere  except  that  you  usually 
see  it  against  a  background  of  mountain  slope 
or  standing  timber.  It  falls  straight  and  heavy, 
or,  if  there  is  wind,  then  waving  in  diagonal 
lines,  and  possibly  filling  the  whole  valley  with 
a  gray  mist  that  cannot  be  penetrated  by  the 
eye.  Sometimes  it  is  furious  and  lashes  crests 
and  minarets  and  mountain  walls  with  a  force 
unseen  elsewhere,  pouring  down  in  torrents  and 
washing  bare  surfaces  almost  in  waves.  With 
it  at  these  times  comes  lightning  that  seems  to 
run  in  zigzags  from  cloud  to  cloud  or  peak  to 
peak,  and  then  again  in  rivulets  that  stream 
down  into  the  valley  with  a  great  crash  of 
accompanying  thunder.  The  reverberation  of 
the  rocky  walls,  perhaps,  creates  the  impres- 
sion of  there  being  more  lightning  than  really 
exists.    Thunder  in  mountain  valleys  or  even 


BLUE  AND   SILVER 


213 


among  the  high  peaks  is  usually  terrific  in  its 
sound. 

In  times  of  wide-spread  storm  the  clouds 
hang  down  low  in  the  valleys  and  are  ragged 
on  their  under  edges.  Frequently  parts  of 
them  get  entangled  in  the  tree-tops  of  the 
high  timber  and  tear  into  fragments  like  thin 
bats  of  cotton,  or  they  drift  helplessly  about 
bumping  themselves  to  pieces  against  rocky 
escarpments.  The  appearance  of  these  storm- 
clouds  when  seen  from  the  upper  peaks  look- 
ing down  upon  their  tops  is,  of  course,  entirely 
different.  The  mass  of  clouds  is  then  bril- 
liantly illuminated  by  the  sun  and  in  appear- 
ance is  not  unlike  a  heavy,  sunlit  fog  rolling 
in  from  the  sea.  Its  hue  is  a  radiant  white  or 
silver  and  its  movement  is  billowy  or  rolling. 

After  a  storm  has  passed  there  is  often  a 
bright  effect  produced  by  the  sun  shining  upon 
the  rear  of  the  passing  clouds  and  convert- 
ing the  cloud-mounds  into  visions  of  dazzling 
whiteness.  Below  the  white  domes  and  turrets 
of  cumulus  there  is  occasionally  a  fall  of  rain 
wherein  the  rain-drops  are  struck  by  the  sun 
and  changed  into  falling  diamonds.  And,  of 
course,  there  is  the  common  but  always  beau- 
tiful arch  of  the  rainbow  to  span  the  valley 


Low 
clouds. 


Above  the 
storm. 


Passing 
clouds. 


Arch  of  the 
rainbow. 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


at  some  time  during  the  storm.  But  perhaps 
any  and  all  of  these  features  are  seen  better 
from  the  valley  than  the  peak.  In  fact,  a 
storm  looked  down  upon  from  the  sunlit  upper 
regions  is  a  rather  disappointing  affair  because 
you  do  not  see  the  storm. 

The  peaks  themselves  seem  to  regard  storms 
vevy  lightly.  They  are  unmoved  and  im- 
changed.  The  roar  and  the  thunder,  with 
the  swish  of  rain  and  the  whirl  of  winds,  are 
only  so  much  tempest  in  a  teapot  to  them. 
A  cloudburst  hurled  against  the  Matterhorn 
or  a  blizzard  roaring  about  Mount  Stephen 
is  pitiful  in  its  impotence.  After  many  cen- 
turies of  wear  the  storms  may  drag  down 
the  granite  needles  and  lay  them  in  the  dust, 
but  the  wear  of  a  single  storm,  no  matter 
how  severe,  is  as  nothing.  The  w^alls  shake 
not,  the  underbasing  does  not  tremble,  the 
foot-hills  are  not  moved.  As  for  the  snow- 
crowned  peaks,  they  lift  their  heads  serenely 
into  the  sunlight  and  give  no  intimation  of 
the  attack. 

The  splendid  repose  of  the  upper  peaks  is 
half  of  their  sublimity  and  is  productive  of  per- 
haps half  of  our  admiration.  By  contrast  with 
the  noisy  brawling  of  the  winds  and  waters 


BLUE  AND   SILVER 


215 


they  appear  so  restful,  so  majestic,  so  beyond 
all  change  or  sway  or  influence.  Many  causes, 
perhaps,  lead  up  to  our  regarding  the  moun- 
tains as  sublime,  as  we  shall  see  hereafter, 
but  not  the  least  of  them  is  mountain  serenity. 


CHAPTER  XII 


THE  RANGES 


Remainder 
of  the  ice- 
cap. 


Perpetual 
snow. 


The  great 
ranges. 


The  white  peaks  of  the  great  ranges  seem 
the  lonely  survivors  of  the  Great  Ice  Age. 
When  the  ice-sheet  slipped  away  from  the 
equator,  retreating  on  either  side  toward  the 
poles,  the  white  caps  of  the  high  mountains 
were  left  behind — the  only  remnants  of  the 
snow  cover  left  in  the  temperate  belt.  White 
they  remain  to  us  at  the  present  time  and 
white  they  will  probably  continue  for  cen- 
turies to  come.  Their  altitude  and  present 
temperature  make  possible  their  cloaks  of 
perpetual  snow.  The  snow  mantle  is  always 
losing  at  the  bottom — running  away  in  brook 
and  river — but  it  is  always  being  renewed  at 
the  top  by  new  snowfalls  and  glacier  forma- 
tions. Hence,  it  is  continuous  in  kind  if  not 
everlasting  in  the  part. 

High  up  on  the  plateaus  of  the  world  the 

white  peaks   stand  clustered  in  masses  like 

the  Alps,  or  lifted  into  an  enormous  wall  like 

the  Himalayas,  or  strung  out  in  a  long,  wind- 

216 


THE  RANGES 


217 


ing  line  like  the  Andes  and  the  Rockies.  The 
Alps  are  more  localized  in  area  than  the  others 
and  perhaps  for  that  reason  more  violent  in 
folding  and  splintering.  Enormous  and  im- 
posing as  they  appear,  they  are  outbulked  by 
the  Himalayas — the  "High  Asia,"  the  true 
roof  of  the  world.  These  come  across  India 
into  the  Caucasus  and  almost  touch  shoulders 
with  the  Alps;  they  extend  down  into  the 
Malay  Peninsula  and,  with  interruptions,  run 
into  the  islands  of  the  sea.  This  immense 
wall  of  rock  is  what  the  Arabs  call  "  the  stony 
girdle  of  the  world,''  and  it  is  well  named.  The 
Andean-Rockies  are  more  regular  and  perhaps 
less  imposing  in  bulk,  but  they  run  from  Cape 
Horn  to  the  Behring  Sea — practically  from 
pole  to  pole — in  an  unbroken  sequence  and 
form  a  chain  of  white  half-way  around  the 
globe. 

The  northern  Rockies  in  places  have  the 
regularity  of  sea  waves,  and  a  lively  imagina- 
tion might  regard  them  as  drifted  into  their 
present  place  by  some  furious  storm  in  the 
dark,  abysmal  time  ere  the  stars  sang  to- 
gether— a  storm  so  furious  that  the  surface  of 
the  earth  was  lifted  and  rolled  into  waves  as 
though  it  were  water. 


The  Him- 
alayas. 


The  north- 
ern Rock- 
ies. 


218 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


"You  can  see  the  upward  bend 

With  the  gathering  of  forces. 
And  the  wave-crests  in  their  trend 

Breaking  north  in  foaming  courses. 
Were  the  mighty  T;\ands  set  blowing 

So  terrific  in  their  mood 
That  they  started  mountains  flowing 

And  then  left  them  where  they  stood  ? 

"Lol  the  snowy  tops  still  stand 

Petrified  in  waving  motion, 
Tossing  whitecaps  of  the  land 

Rising  from  a  rocky  ocean. 
They  are  lifting,  they  are  waving 

Frozen  arms  against  the  sky. 
Crested  spectres  once  set  raving 

In  a  storm  age  long  gone  by." 

But  the  placing  of  the  mountain  ranges,  the 
lines  they  follow,  the  continents  they  traverse 
are  not  supposed  to  have  quite  so  fantastic 
an  origin  as  that.  Dana  long  ago  discovered 
that  the  greatest  mountain  ranges  stand  op- 
posite the  greatest  ocean  basins — the  lower 
portion  of  South  America  which  is  opposite 
eastern  Asia  being  almost  the  only  exception. 
The  elevation  of  one  portion  of  the  globe  is 
supposed  to  have  something  to  do  with  the 
depression  of  another  portion  of  it.  The  con- 
tinents themselves,  if  we  choose  so  to  regard 


THE  RANGES 


219 


them,  are  merely  momitains,  uplifts  of  the  land 
above  the  sea.  Were  they  mere  accidents  or 
was  there  method  in  their  making  ?  And  the 
ranges  heaved  up  along  their  back — the  long 
ranges  like  that  from  Alaska  to  Tierra  del 
Fuego — are  they  merely  casual  wavings  of  an 
oversqueezed  crust? 

Regarding  such  questions,  science  hesitates 
or  speculates,  while  philosophy  and  religion  go 
by  on  the  other  side.  The  problem  is  as  yet 
too  much  for  the  mental  grasp  of  man.  Im- 
agination pictures  a  primitive  world,  whirl- 
ing in  space  as  a  shining  ball  evenly  covered 
with  water,  and  sees  it,  by  coolings  and  chang- 
ings,  sinking  in  certain  spots,  and  in  those 
spots  the  gradual  settling  of  the  seas.  The 
waters  would  thus  be  drawn  off  from  the  parts 
of  the  globe  that  did  not  sink,  and,  by  com- 
parison, they  would  become  the  elevated  por- 
tions of  the  dry  land,  or  the  continents.  That 
much  might  be  believed  about  the  general  dis- 
tribution of  land  and  water  and  still  give  no 
hint  about  our  mountain  ranges.  The  long 
line  of  the  Andean-Rockies  may  have  been 
caused  by  a  lateral  thrust,  along  a  line  of 
weakness  in  the  crust;  but  how  did  the 
pressure  happen  to  come  there  by  the  edge  of 


Scientific 
limita- 
tions. 


Distribu- 
tion of  land 
and  water. 


220 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


lonorance 
of  the 
ranges. 


The  Alps 
the  best 
known. 


The  un- 
knoum 
Hima- 
layas. 


the  sea  and  extend  half-way  around  the  globe 
from  north  to  south?  In  spite  of  scientific 
achievement  there  still  remains  some  igno- 
rance about  the  great  ranges. 

The  ignorance  is  almost  as  marked  topo- 
graphically as  geologically.  All  of  the  ranges 
have,  of  course,  been  mapped  and  measured 
and  duly  described.  The  polar  regions  form 
an  exception,  though  we  are  given  hints  of  vast 
mountains  at  the  south  and  large  continental 
tracts  lying  to  the  north.  But,  aside  from  the 
scientific  and  governmental  charting  of  the 
ranges,  there  is  no  wide  diffusion  of  knowledge 
about  them  or  experience  in  or  with  them. 
The  Alps  are  the  best  known  of  all  the  moun- 
tains, thanks  to  their  accessibility,  but  how 
few  there  are  who  know  about  the  Rockies 
and  how  fewer  still  about  the  Andes!  The 
Himalayas  and  the  Caucasus  are  in  lands  long 
known  and  still  thickly  populated,  but  the 
great  ridges  remain  unexplored  and  the  people 
see  them  only  from  afar  off.  An  Alpine  climber 
breaks  into  them  occasionally,  as  he  has  done 
into  the  Andes,  but  the  natives  regard  him 
as  something  of  a  madman,  and  the  outside 
world  puts  him  in  a  class  with  the  arctic 
explorer.     The  world   at  large   has    not    as 


THE  RANGES 


221 


yet  made  any  appreciable  impression  upon 
the  momitains.  The  great  preserves  of  the 
high  ranges  are  still  practically  unknown,  un- 
touched. 

Nor  have  the  people  of  the  past  ever  had 
a  proper  appreciation  of  the  mountains,  possi- 
bly owing  to  a  like  ignorance  of  them.  Moun- 
tain-climbing for  centuries  was  a  necessity, 
perhaps,  of  goatherds,  but  never  a  pleasure 
of  the  learned  or  the  aesthetic  or  the  merely 
curious.  In  1336  Petrarch  made  the  ascent 
of  Mount  Ventoux  (6,200  feet),  in  France. 
He  lived  near  the  mountain  and  yet  had  the 
ascent  in  mind  for  years  before  he  undertook 
it,  so  desperate  and  wild  an  adventure  did  it 
seem  to  him.  In  a  description  of  it,  written 
to  the  monk  Dionysius  at  the  University  of 
Paris,  he  groans  over  the  ascent  like  a  modern 
alpenstock  tourist.  When  he  got  to  the  top 
he  looked  for  "the  view,"  and  saw  merely 
the  Bay  of  Marseilles.  He  wondered  that  he 
could  not  see  the  Pyrenees!  Then  he  sat 
down,  pulled  out  a  copy  of  Saint  Augustine's 
Confessions,  and  began  moralizing  on  the  gran- 
deur of  the  human  soul  and  the  consequent 
meanness  of  mountains. 

Just  such  an  exalted  notion  of  the  ego  and 


Apprecia- 
tion of 
mountains. 


Petrarch 
climbing 
Mount 
Ventoux. 


222 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Bishop 
Burnet  on 
mountains. 


Mountain 
poetry. 


contemptuous  opinion  of  the  cosmos  obtained 
with  the  polite  and  learned  down  to  a  very 
recent  date.  The  mountain  ranges  were  re- 
garded as  either  a  nuisance  or  a  terror.  They 
were  almost  the  last  of  earth  to  win  love  and 
admiration.  Leslie  Stephen  quotes  Bishop 
Burnet  as  referring  to  them  as  "vast  undi- 
gested heaps  of  stone,"  and  again  as  exclaim- 
ing: "Look  upon  these  great  ranges,  in  what 
confusion  do  they  lie;  they  have  neither  form 
nor  beauty,  neither  shape  nor  order,  no  more 
than  the  clouds  in  the  air.  Then  how  barren, 
how  desolate,  how  naked  are  they  !  How  they 
stand  neglected  by  nature  !  Neither  the  rains 
can  soften  them  nor  the  dews  from  heaven 
can  make  them  fruitful."  Probably  most  of 
the  people  of  the  time  shot  as  wide  of  the 
mark  as  that. 

Then,  after  the  hopelessly  unsjTnpathetic, 
came  the  bombastic,  with  poets  like  "Seasons" 
Thomson,  who  used  the  mountains  as  so  much 
sonorous  copy.  There  was  little  more  under- 
standing or  sympathy  than  before.  Nature 
was  not  a  thing  in  itself  but  a  state  of  mind 
or  a  mood.  It  was  so  even  with  the  roman- 
ticists. One  by  one  the  inspired  ones  had  their 
try  at  the  mountains,  but  which  one  of  them 


THE  RANGES 


223 


reached  to  Alpine  heights?  Byron  dragged 
down  Mont  Blanc  by  likening  it  to  a  monarch 
seated  upon  a  throne,  crowned  with  a  diadem 
of  snow,  and  Coleridge  turned  the  same  moun- 
tain into  a  mole-hill  by  describing  it  as  pierc- 
ing the  "ebon  mass"  of  air  around  it  as  "with 
a  wedge' M  Shelley  is  just  as  inadequate  be- 
cause overdone. 

"  The  keen  sky-cleaving  mountains 
From  icy  spires  of  sunlike  radiance  fling 
The  dawn,  as  lifted  Ocean's  dazzling  spray. 
From  some  Atlantic  islet  spattered  up, 
Spangles  the  wind  with  lamplike  water-drops." 

The  glitter  of  it  is  more  like  the  prisms  of 
an  old-fashioned  chandelier  than  the  frozen 
spires  of  the  peaks.  Once  more  hear  the  great 
Goethe  describe  a  snowfall  on  the  Alps: 

"  Yesterday  brown  was  still  thy  head,  as  the  locks 

of  thy  loved  one 
Whose  sweet  image  so  dear  silently  beckons  afar. 
Silver-gray   is  the  early  snow   to-day  on  thy 

summit, 
Through  the  tempestuous  night  streaming  past 

over  thy  brow." 

Wordsworth  never  wrote  anything  tamer  nor 
"Ossian"  Macpherson  anything  more  empty. 


Bur  on  on 

Mont 

Blanc. 


Goethe  on 
the  Alps. 


224 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


The  real  poetic  allusions  to  the  mountains 
that  have  strength  in  them  are  in  the  Bible 
and  Shakespeare.  Only  a  very  few  minds 
seem  to  have  risen  to  the  mountains,  and  al- 
most always  it  will  be  noted  that  those  few 
refer  to  the  mountains  in  simile  or  allusion 
rather  than  in  description. 

The  artists  of  the  paint-brush  have  fared 
little  better  than  those  of  the  pen,  and  in  the 
main  have  followed  in  the  same  strain  as  the 
writers.  The  exceptions  are  men  like  Durer 
and  Altdorfer,  in  Germany,  who  knew  the 
drawing  of  certain  mountain  forms  exceedingly 
well;  and  Titian  at  Venice,  who  grew  up  in  the 
Cadore  ^Mountains  and  never  forgot  them. 
Titian's  mountains  in  the  background  of  such 
pictures  as  the  '"Presentation,"  in  the  Venice 
Academy,  are  superb,  and  several  of  his  fol- 
lowers (Palma  and  Bonifazio)  show,  perhaps, 
a  transmitted  knowledge  of  mountain  ar- 
rangement. Later  on  came  the  egotists,  who 
thought  of  nature  as  merely  a  second  fiddle  in 
the  orchestra — something  that  would,  perhaps, 
help  out  human  expression.  Salvator  Rosa 
used  precipices  and  storm-swept  peaks  merely 
to  suggest  his  stormy  mood;  Claude  and 
Poussin  used  them  as  a  classic  background; 


THE  RANGES 


225 


Delacroix  employed  them  to  help  out  a  ro- 
mantic story.  It  was  all  of  it  more  or  less 
distortion  though  decorative  and  appropriate 
enough  as  a  filling  up  of  the  canvas. 

Courbet  was  more  truthful  and  far  bet- 
ter, especially  when  he  did  portions  only  of 
ranges  or  precipices  or  rocky  retreats.  Turner 
sketched  among  the  Alps,  and  Segantini  lived 
and  painted  among  them  during  the  latter 
part  of  his  life;  and  from  these  two  came  many 
suggestions  of  mountain  beauty.  But  they, 
in  common  with  all  the  others,  had  fundamen- 
tal difiiculties  to  deal  with.  Not  all  the  elo- 
quence of  Ruskin,  with  the  indorsement  of  the 
later  Hamerton,  could  entirely  remove  those 
difficulties.  Ruskin  insisted  that  the  color  of 
the  Alps  was  the  most  lovely  in  all  the  world; 
but  then,  his  world  extended  no  farther  than 
a  limited  portion  of  western  Europe.  He  ad- 
mired Alpine  coloring  in  spots  rather  than  in 
masses.  The  small  patches  of  bell-gentian, 
oxalis,  and  violets  seemed  to  take  his  fancy 
more  than  the  gray  peaks  or  the  blue  sky, 
but  he  had  a  very  true  word  for  the  moun- 
tain blues,  roses,  and  purples.  He  had,  in- 
deed, such  a  sincere  love  for  mountain  beauty 
that  it  would  not  let  him  see  any  beauty  wha  t- 


Courbct 

and 

Turner. 


Ruskin  on 

Alpine 

color. 


His  lore  of 
mou7itains. 


226 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


Painters 
could  not 
follow 
Buskin. 


ever  in  the  flat  lands.  His  analysis  of  the  Alps 
was,  however,  a  keen  exposition  notwithstand- 
ing its  fantasies.  All  that  he  had  to  say  about 
structure,  about  peaks  and  precipices  and 
snows  and  waterfalls,  was  quite  true.  And  he 
had  the  added  virtue  of  literary  style  which 
commanded  the  attention  of  the  art  world. 

But  somehow  the  painters  never  could  follow 
Ruskin  in  the  mountains  with  any  success. 
He  thought  the  mountains  elevated  and  en- 
nobled mankind,  as  Buckle,  per  contra,  thought 
they  dulled  the  intellect;  but  the  painter  peo- 
ple cared  nothing  about  such  abstractions. 
They  could  not  see  the  color  or  get  the  at- 
mospheric setting  or  compress  the  pattern 
without  dwarfing  or  belittling  the  theme. 
Some  there  were  who  insisted  the  Ruskin 
colors  did  not  exist;  others  there  were  who 
found  the  purples,  blues,  and  dark  greens,  but 
found  them  too  cold.  And  completely  over- 
awed by  the  vastness  of  form.  A  drawing  of 
a  mountain  range  by  masses  of  color  was 
possible  but  when  done  was  not  probable. 
A  linear  drawing  with  light  and  shade  was 
even  worse,  for  it  became  rambling  and  pan- 
oramic. Yet  there  is  no  doubt  whatever  about 
the  beauty  of  the  moimtains  in  themselves. 


Difficulties 
of  moun- 
tain-paint- 
ing. 


THE  RANGES 


227 


Why  cannot  they  be  reduced  to  canvas?  Is 
it  impossible  to  poetize  or  visualize  them? 
Are  they  beyond  the  pale? 

To  say  that  the  high  mountains,  though 
sublime  in  their  form  and  color,  are  not 
pictorial  is  to  assume  the  whole  question; 
yet,  nevertheless,  that  is  the  proper  answer. 
The  qualities  of  sublimity  in  the  mountains, 
such  as  bulk  and  mass,  are  the  very  qualities 
that  cannot  be  realized  or  placed  on  canvas. 
The  abrupt  lift,  the  height,  the  perpendicular 
line  that  counts  in  the  mountain  for  majesty 
and  dignity — just  as  the  horizon-Hne  in  the 
sea  makes  for  repose — are  things  that  cannot 
be  adequately  suggested  in  theu-  enormous 
The  necessary  reduction  in  scale  loses 


size. 


tremendously  in  suggestiveness.  Moreover, 
there  is  still  another  quality  that  comes  with 
the  mighty  uplift — the  quality  of  looming  in 
the  peak.  At  times  the  whole  peak  seems  to 
ride  the  blue  sky  and  comes  looming  forward 
and  upward  above  us.  Such  illusions  or  im- 
pressions are  produced  only  by  the  actual  bulk 
and  lift,  and  once  more  they  cannot  be  re- 
duced to  canvas  without  becoming  dwarfed, 
tame,  and  expressionless. 
In    a    narrower   sense   the   pictorial — that 


Mountains 
not  picto-^ 
rial. 


Illusions 
and  im- 
pressions. 


228 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


The  deco- 
rative pat- 
tern. 


The  spec- 
tacular and 
grandiose. 


Ragged 
sky-lines. 


is,  something  fitted  for  a  picture — means 
primarily  a  decorative  arrangement  of  form 
and  color,  an  agreeable  pattern  that  can  be 
scaled  to  a  certain-sized  canvas.  The  momi- 
tains  hardly  lend  themselves  to  the  pattern, 
and  their  placing  upon  canvas  usually  results 
in  some  crowding  and  mutilation.  If  seen 
close  to  view  the  huge  forms  shut  out  both 
sky  and  foreground;  if  seen  from  a  lowland 
distance  in  many  peaks  and  groups  the  pic- 
ture inclines  to  the  spectacular,  the  grandiose, 
the  topographic.  The  view  from  near  Turin 
looking  northward  to  the  Alps  is  magnificent; 
so,  too,  is  the  panorama  of  the  snowy  sierra 
from  Granada  or  the  ^Mexican  mountains  from 
Zacatecas;  but  none  of  these  scenes  would 
shape  up  or  cut  up  into  a  picture.  They  are 
too  mappy.  And,  again,  the  jagged  peaks 
would  result  in  an  irritating  saw-edge  for  a 
sky-line — a  series  of  perpendicular  and  diagonal 
lines  without  a  round  or  flowing  line  to  break 
the  monotony.  The  pattern  would  not  be 
agreeable  in  form. 

When  the  matter  of  the  color  in  the  pattern 
is  considered  the  high  mountains  will  once 
more  be  found  lacking.  The  color  is  too  cold. 
"\Miites  and  blues  and  purples  may  be  true, 


THE  RANGES 


229 


appropriate,  and  very  acceptable  in  nature, 
and  yet  be  forbidding  in  art.  They  have  not 
pictorial  charm  or  loveliness;  they  do  not 
win  or  enchant  us  on  the  canvas.  Harmony 
with  the  great  colorists  has  usually  meant  a 
balance  of  warm  tones  by  cold  ones,  but  the 
mountains  have  no  warm  tones  except  in 
unimportant  spots.  Even  the  greens  of  the 
timber  belt  are  cold  greens  that  border  upon 
purple,  and  as  for  the  reds  and  yellows,  they 
do  not  exist  except,  again,  sporadically.  On 
the  canvas  the  snowy  peaks  would  be  given 
in  three  or  four  large  planes  of  color.  In  the 
foreground  would,  perhaps,  come  a  strip  of 
green,  then  a  higher  strip  of  gray-green  rep- 
resenting the  uplands,  then  a  zigzag  of  white 
showing  the  peaks,  and  lastly,  at  the  top  of 
the  canvas,  a  flatband  of  blue  sky.  Would 
that  make  up  an  attractive  color  pattern? 
Not  all  the  skill  of  the  Courbets  and  the 
Rousseaus,  nor  all  the  truth  of  the  latter-day 
Scandinavian  impressionists,  has  been  able  to 
make  it  so. 

When  one  thinks  of  light  and  atmosphere 
in  mountain  pictures  the  difficulties  simply 
increase.  The  light  has  little  or  no  warmth 
and  is  too  clear,  too  penetrating.    It  robs  the 


The  cold- 
ness of  the 
color. 


Absence  of 
warm  hiies. 


Light  and 
atmos- 
phere. 


230 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


No  "envel- 
ope" for 
the  picture. 


The  human 
element. 


scene  of  all  mystery  and  is  inclined  to  be 
glaring.  The  shadows  are  often  supremely 
lovely,  but  so  delicate  that  when  accurately 
painted  they  fail  in  carrying-power.  The  air, 
again,  is  too  thin,  too  intangible,  for  a  blend- 
ing and  holding  medium.  At  great  heights  it 
practically  goes  out,  and  any  accurate  render- 
ing of  it  would  give  the  impression  of  a  vacuum 
in  the  upper  space.  It  is  not  dense  enough  to 
create  what  is  called  the  "envelope"  of  a 
picture. 

jNIoreover,  painting  is  of  a  middle  quality 
between  a  thought  and  a  thing — "the  union 
of  that  which  is  nature  with  that  which  is 
exclusively  human."  The  human  element  in 
thought,  feeling,  or  emotion  should  be  in  it, 
otherwise  it  is  no  better  than  so  much  me- 
chanical tracery.  But  when  nature  appears 
upon  so  stupendous  a  scale,  what  chance  is 
there  for  human  personality  to  come  in  or  for 
emotion  or  feeling  to  make  itself  manifest 
except  by  distortion?  How  could  the  most 
accomplished  emotionalist  give  you  his  feel- 
ing about  the  Alps  or  the  most  uncompro- 
mising impressionist  his  impression  about  the 
Himalayas  without  sacrificing  objective  truth  ? 
Once  more  the  forms  are  too  colossal. 


THE  RANGES 


231 


Of  course,  there  have  been  some  good  pic- 
tures painted  of  the  mountains,  in  spite  of 
objections  that  may  be  raised;  but  they  have 
usually  succeeded  by  compromising  or  evad- 
ing difficulties.  When  the  high  peaks  and  the 
snow  are  eliminated  an  arrangement  of  green, 
gray,  and  blue  is  left  that  is  certainly  less 
difficult  to  harmonize  than  the  entire  scene. 
Still,  even  the  green  mountains  have  not 
been  too  successfully  handled  in  art.  Claude 
and  Poussin  painted  them  a  tapestry  green, 
such  Dutchmen  as  Ruysdael  gave  them  a 
pincushion  olive-green,  and  the  Englishmen, 
Gainsborough  and  Crome,  toned  them  to 
the  key  of  brown  leather;  but  it  was  all 
a  rather  sorry  distortion  of  mountain  color. 
Painters  in  America — A.  H.  Wyant  and  Homer 
Martin  for  instances — have  come  nearer  to  the 
truth  of  both  nature  and  art  by  using  warm 
light  and  a  richly  colored  foliage.  They,  how- 
ever, have  dealt  more  with  low  Adirondack 
hills  than  high  mountains. 

The  paintable  mountains — the  ones  that 
would  make  up  the  decorative  pattern  in  form 
and  color,  light  and  air — are  those  of  the 
desert.  The  ranges  of  Arizona,  for  example, 
are  not  marked  by  whites,  greens,  and  cold 


Painting 

green 
mountains. 


Claude, 
Ruysdael, 
Gains- 
borough, 


Wyant  and 
Martin. 


The  desert 

ranges 

paintable. 


232 


THE  MOUNTAIN 


purples.  The  slopes  are  bare  of  trees  and  only 
a  gray  yellow  of  chaparral  or  cactus  or  bunch- 
grass  appears  here  and  there  in  spots.  The 
red  of  porphyry  shines  through  the  thin  cover- 
ing and  gives  the  slopes  and  peaks  a  ruddy 
hue,  the  air,  especially  in  the  heat  of  summer, 
is  opalescent  or,  at  times,  lilac-hued,  and  the 
light  is  often  pale  orange  or  warm  pink.  Seen 
through  such  media  the  huge  foldings  and 
breakings  of  porphyry  and  granite  float 
weirdly  in  a  sea  of  color,  look  mysteriously 
splendid.  At  sunset  it  is  not  only  the  sky 
and  air  that  are  deluged  with  color,  but  the 
bare  peaks  take  fire  from  the  western  light  and 
glow  like  turrets  of  molten  metal. 

Here  is  not  only  warmth  of  color  but  an 
atmosphere  that  is  thick  enough  to  blur  form 
and  keep  it  from  too  great  prominence.  Here 
also  is  a  light  sufiiciently  diffused  to  do  away 
with  all  sharp  contrasts.  The  conditions  for 
a  decorative  pattern  on  canvas  are  existent  in 
the  desert  landscape,  but  the  painter  seems 
not  yet  to  have  arrived.  Decamps  in  Turkey 
and  Fromentin  in  Algiers  were  too  much 
interested  in  humanity  to  care  much  about 
their  mountain  backgrounds,  and  here 
America,  though  there  have  been  some  excel 


m 


THE  RANGES 


233 


lent  attempts,  the  vastness  of  the  ranges  and 
the  wilderness  of  color  have  bothered  such 
of  our  landscapists  as  have  made  the  trial. 
The  mountains  of  the  desert  really  call  for  a 
painter  with  a  different  color  sense  from  any 
of  his  predecessors.  His  palette  must  be  lim- 
itless and  his  sense  of  harmony  all-embracing. 
That  is  merely  another  way  of  returning 
upon  ourselves  and  declaring  the  difficulties 
of  the  mountain  on  canvas.  Evidently  the 
high  peaks  were  not  intended  for  exploitation 
in  art. 

Is  it  matter  of  regret  that  the  painter  can- 
not lash  the  Himalayas  to  the  mast  or  spread 
the  Andes  on  canvas  ?  On  the  contrary,  there 
is,  perhaps,  a  satisfaction  in  thinking  that 
some  things  in  nature  are  beyond  man's  power. 
It  is  a  pleasure  to  think  of  the  mountains,  for 
instance,  that  no  one  can  till  them  or  fell  them 
or  destroy  them,  that  commercially  or  econom- 
ically they  cannot  be  capitalized  and  sold  on 
the  market,  that  even  artistically  they  are 
hardly  to  be  captured  and  lugged  into  the 
drawing-room.  Evidently,  the  best  that  man 
can  do  about  them  is  to  wonder  over  them 
and  admire  them.  And  what  things  to  wonder 
over  are  the  great  ranges !    To  the  north  of 


A  new 
field. 


Things  be- 
yond man's 
reach. 


The  un- 
attainable 
ranges. 


234 


THE   MOUNTAIN 


Italy  lifts  the  snowy  boundary  of  the  Alps, 
to  the  north  of  Persia  stretches  the  grim 
Caucasus,  to  the  north  of  India  rises  the 
giant  barrier  of  the  Himalayas.  Merely  ex- 
posed portions  of  the  crust,  but  how  very 
astonishing  they  are  in  mass  and  volume! 
Shall  we  ever  cease  to  exclaim  over  them? 
Shall  we  ever  become  so  familiar  with  them 
that  they  will  appear  commonplace? 

When  all  the  world  is  explored,  charted,  dia- 
grammed, when  everj-thing  is  known  in  and 
about  its  surface,  what  a  very  dull  place  it 
will  be  to  live  in!  All  the  poetry  and  glamour 
of  it  will  have  vanished.  We  are  fortunate  in 
our  age  that  there  is  still  some  ignorance  left, 
still  something  to  marvel  over.  The  great 
mountain  ranges  have  not  ceased  to  be  a 
source  of  mystery.  Again  and  again,  as  we 
ride  away,  we  turn  in  the  saddle  to  look  at 
their  massive  forms  against  the  sky.  They 
keep  drawing  us  with  a  new  look  or  an  old 
lure.  They  are  not  paintable,  they  are  not 
habitable,  they  are  not  wholly  understand- 
able, but,  perhaps  for  that  very  reason,  they 
are  wonderful.    May  they  always  remain  so! 


BOOKS  BY  JOHN  C.  VAN  DYKE 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

The  Meaning  of 
Pictures 

With  31  full-page  illustrations.     12mo,  $1.25  net 

"It  may  be  questioned  if  any  other  book  of  its  scope 
has  ever  shown  '  the  meaning  of  pictures '  in  a  way  that 
will  make  it  so  clear  to  the  average  English  reader." 

—The  Dial. 

"A  book  that  is  always  calm  and  cool  and  right." 

— New  York  Evening  Post. 

Studies  in  Pictures 

An  Introduction  to  the  Famous 
Galleries 

With  40  illustrations.     12mo,  $1.25  net 

"Not  only  useful  to  the  unsophisticated,  to  whom  it 
is  admirably  adapted,  but  valuable  to  those  who  have  a 
tendency  to  lose  themselves  in  technicalities." 

— New  York  Times. 

"  Mr.  Van  Dyke  will  help  the  student  to  understand  how 
pictures  have  been  made  and  how  they  have  been  brought 
together  in  the  great  galleries;  he  will  show  how  to  get 
at  the  points  of  view  held  by  the  masters,  and  how,  in 
short,  to  use  the  technique  of  art-study." 

— New  York  Tribune. 


BY  PROFESSOR  JOHN  C.  VAN  DYKE 


Art  for  Art's  Sake 

Seven  University  Lectures  on  the 
Technical  Beauties  of  Painting 

With  24  reproductions  of  representative  paintings. 
12mo,  $1.50  net 

"  One  of  the  best  books  on  art  that  has  ever  been  pub- 
lished in  this  country." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  We  consider  it  the  best  treatise  on  the  technic  of  paint- 
ing for  general  readers." — TAe  Nation. 


WHAT  IS  ART? 

Studies  in  the  Technique  and 
Criticism  of  Painting 

12mo,  $1.00  net 

This  book  expounds  the  painter's  point  of  view  as 
distinct  from  that  of  the  connoisseur,  the  collector,  or 
the  museum  director,  which,  he  thinks,  has  for  the  past 
twenty  years  so  monopolized  discussion  among  us  as  to 
cbscure  the  consideration  of  art  as  art,  in  considering 
it  as  a  curiosity  or  commodity. 

''An  unusual  quality  in  art  criticism,  plain  common  sense 
with  a  delightful  avoidance  of  technical  jargon." 

— New  York  Sun. 


BY  PROFESSOR  JOHN  C.  VAN  DYKE 


Nature   for   Its 
Own  Sake 

First  Studies  in  Natural  Appearances 
12mo.  $1.50  net 
**No  one  can  read  it  without  having  his  knowledge  of 
nature  enlarged,  his  curiosity  quickened,  and  his  sensitive- 
ness to  the  beauty  that  is  all  about  him  in  the  world  in- 
creased and  stimulated." — Chicago  Tribune. 

The  Opal  Sea 

Continued  Studies  in  Impressions  and  Appearances 
With  Frontispiece.  1 2mo,  $  1 .25  net 
"  Professor  Van  Dyke  takes  his  reader's  imagination 
captive  with  prose  in  which  we  feel  the  sea's  own  glamour 
of  beauty  and  movement  and  mystery,  its  glory  of  color 
and  power." — New  York  Tribune. 

The   Desert 

Further  Studies  in  Natural  Appearances 
With  Frontispiece.     1 2mo,  $  1 .25  net 

"The  reader  who  once  submits  to  its  spell  will  hardly 
lay  it  aside  until  the  last  page  is  turned." 

— The  Spectator  (London). 


The  Money  God 

Chapters  of  Heresy  and  Dissent  Concerning  Business 

Methods  and  Mercenary  Ideals  in  American  Life 

$1.00  net 

"A  tremendous  indictment  of  the  degrading  materialism 
now  menacing  both  democracy  and  religion,  as  such  it 
should  be  read  by  all  who  have  at  heart  the.need  of  a  moral 
revival." — The  Outlook. 


BY  PROFESSOR  JOHN  C.  VAN  DYKE 


NEW  GUIDES 
TO  OLD  MASTERS 

A  series  of  art  guides,  whose  little  volumes  are  composed 
of  clear,  pointed  critical  notes  upon  individual  pictures, 
written  before  those  pictures  by  the  author  and  revised 
and  rewritten  during  successive  visits.  They  deal  com- 
prehensively ^rith  practically  all  of  the  European  galleries, 
and  therefore  discuss  and  explain  practically  all  th**  im- 
portant paintings  that  hang  in  those  galleries. 

THE  VOLUMES 

London — National  Gallery,  Wallace  Collec- 
tion. With  a  General  Introduction  and 
Bibliography  for  the  Series Netti.ct, 

Paris — Louvre Net     .js 

Amsterdam — Rijks  Museum 

The  Hague — Royal  Gallery    \ Net     .yj 

Haarlem — Hals  Museum 


} 

Antwerp — Royal  Museum  ") 

Brussels — Royal  Museum  ] '"^^ 

\ 


Munich — Old  Pinacothek 

Frankfort — Staedel  Institute  )-..,.  Net  i.oo 

Cass  EL — Royal  Gallery 

Berlin — Kaiser-Friedrich  Museum  ) 

Dresden— Royal  Gallery  3       •     '  ^'*  '"^ 

Vienna — Imperial  Gallery  ) 

Budapest — Museum  of  Fine  Arts  |    •    •     •     '    '-^ 

St.  Petersburg — Hermitage /«  Press 

Venice — Academy  7  .    „ 

Milan— Brera,  Poldi-Pezzoli  Museum  y  •     •   ^«  ^''"' 

Florence— Uffizi,  Pitti,  Academy  .  ...  In  Press 
Rome — Vatican,  Borghese  Gallery  .  ...  In  Press 
Madrid — Prado In  Press 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York 


JEJdcr6Ga 


Franosco 


